Everywhere But Here
by Houkou Ookami
Summary: In which a dreadfully misguided American manages to consider asking out nearly everyone but the person he actually fancies. USUK and more.
1. So Much for Forgone Conclusions

**Pairings**: US/UK and more (listing them would spoil the plot, in a way…).

**Disclaimer**: How could I possibly own Hetalia? I've got neither the time nor the artistic talent.

**A/N**: Story of my life. :D! (That is a sarcastic smiley. Whee.)

* * *

He was not there because he wanted to be. Most certainly not.

That's what Arthur incessantly repeated to himself as he sat awkwardly on the edge of Alfred's living room couch, tentatively sipping some Earl Grey tea which the American had managed to brew. For some unknown reason, he had been invited over for the afternoon. It was suspiciously abrupt; the call from Alfred had come just yesterday, during which he had vaguely said something about "wanting some help with something", which coming from someone like him was surely nothing good. Usually Arthur would flat out refuse such a request and tell the daft American to go bother someone else, but he had been feeling uncharacteristically generous that day.

Contemplating whether or not that spurt of generosity had been a good thing, he sipped the tea again and leaned back into the faded floral couch upon which he sat. It was, astonishingly, quite delicious. He could never get over how good America managed to be at making tea; he always seemed to know exactly what to put in. But of course, England would never let on that he thought this.

"This is a terrible excuse for tea, you twat," he stated, not about to voice his true opinion on the matter and consequently contribute to the idiot's ego. All he received in response was a bright grin, that infuriating smile which tended to melt the heart of anyone who laid eyes upon it. But not his; never. England turned his head to the side, expression pointedly unamused, and after a fashion, took another sip of the tea.

As if he'd been waiting for this moment, the American across from him burst into laughter.

"_What_?" Arthur asked with exasperation.

"Nothing. I'm just glad you like your tea," came the chuckling reply, accompanied by two twinkling cerulean eyes. The bearer of those eyes gulped some of his coffee rather loudly and continued to smile brightly, seemingly oblivious to the scowl his guest wore.

Arthur, feeling his head begin to hurt, decided the answer to his earlier thoughts was a definite "no". Gritting his teeth, he retorted, "I don't like it! I am simply being a gentleman. A skill you could learn, you bloody git." Of course, it was a rather weak defence, but there was little else he could say––admitting that the tea was good was absolutely out of the question. At least he had thrown in an insult at the end.

There came another small laugh. "Oh, right, we've got Mr. _English Gentleman_ here! Always so proper!" Alfred exclaimed mockingly. England felt the pain his his head increase a bit more at the sarcasm. "You know, I never knew that gentlemen used the word 'bloody' so much…"

"…sod off." That grin had returned, perhaps even brighter, and Arthur's grimace deepened in proportion to it. In an effort to find an excuse to look away, he reached out to grab a lemon biscuit––how did America know he liked those?––from the plate between them, which he proceeded to bite rather bitterly.

"What was that? I couldn't understand your British-speak. It's so outdated and totally un-awesome."

England chose to ignore the comment, his scowl deepening. "Look, why don't you just hurry up and explain to me why the blazes you decided to insist I visit 'right away'? It's not as if I enjoy coming to this bleeding excuse for a country."

America shrugged. "I just felt like hanging out with someone. That's all."

"With me?" he scoffed. "Oh, yes, and France is in a committed relationsh––"

"Actually, he's been with...ah, what's-his-name… Mattie! Yeah, yeah, he's been with Mattie for a pretty long time now."

"That's completely beside the point!" Arthur exclaimed exasperatedly, but then paused as the words registered fully. "Wait, France has managed to stay in a relationship for longer than a few nights? With 'Mattie'? ...Er, who?" The name sounded a tad familiar, but England couldn't place it. Somewhere northern, perhaps. He concentrated for a moment, finally managing to come up with, "That's––that's Cana-something. Right?"

"Canada."

"Right. Well. Anyway." He coughed. "Please explain your true reason for inviting me. If it really is that frivolous, then I might as well be off." To emphasise this statement, England made a show of beginning to rise from the couch, looking as if he were about to make for the door. He didn't actually have anything better to be doing that day, but he sorely wished he could be somewhere other than the twat's house. Or so he told himself.

A hand on his arm pushed him gently back down, and Arthur looked up in astonishment. Two blue orbs stared at him with what seemed like a hint of disappointment; to his great chagrin Arthur could feel his face go a little red. "Is hanging out with me really that bad, Artie?" Alfred whined, a pout playing across his lips. It was insufferable. And bloody adorable. England used another cookie as an excuse to look away.

"Well. Frankly, yes. It is. I must suffer through you butchering my language, your lack of manners is atrocious, you are incapable of being serious for more than a minute, your manner of dress––" at this, Arthur ran his eyes up and down the American, examining the tacky bomber jacket, T-shirt, and jeans he had thrown on probably 10 minutes before his guest's arrival, "––lacks any semblance of sophistication, and you are always eating that disgusting fast food of yours. Whatever could be enjoyable about that?"

For a moment, Alfred almost looked a bit hurt and Arthur almost––almost–– felt a bit bad about his words, but the look was quickly replaced by his trademark grin. "I improved your language! It's been perfected! Awesomely. And this," he said, motioning towards his clothes, "is better than wearing a suit practically all the time and considering a sweater-vest and tie casual. You're so stuffy." There was a pause, and Arthur shifted uncomfortably as Alfred studied his clothing with a frown. "I mean, geez, if I wanted you to dress like that I'd take you to a fancy restaurant or something," he added, sticking his tongue out childishly.

_I'd rather like that…_ England thought dryly.

"What?"

"What?" he responded intelligently, sounding both surprised and mildly confused. Had he spoken aloud? He could feel a slight embarrassed blush spreading across his face and pushed the odd thought out of his mind, doing his best to appear miffed. "Anyway, can't you please get to the point already?" he inquired, while reaching for his teacup to avoid letting Alfred see the pink still dusting his cheeks.

"Oh… fine, okay," America sighed; it seemed that he had not noticed, to England's great relief. "So lately I've been thinking to myself…"

_Well, that can't be good._

"...that I should ask someone out!"

_Definitely not good, _England muttered mentally, but at the same time he could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. He passed it off as nothing more than being startled that the American was capable of fancying anyone but himself.

"I mean, someone as awesome as me should be with someone, right?"

The man paused as if actually wanting an answer, and Arthur awkwardly inserted, "Er, right."

"And a hero always has someone to come back to after a long day of heroic awesomeness! Like in the movies, you know? And I've known you for a really long time––"

Arthur, spluttering, felt his face grow warm. _No, no no no no. _America was _not _trying to ask him out. _We hate each other, always arguing, he never knows when to just shut up and bugger off and he laughs at me when I get angry at him and I completely do not find that adorable, never ever would, and every time he calls it's just to insult me and–– Wait. Every time?_ It was true that the foolish American phoned him practically every day, but he had always figured that Alfred did so simply to be a bother.

_...shit._

England wondered suddenly if America had his mobile number memorised and felt the red coming back, hastily attempting to hide his face with the teacup. _Of course I'll have to reject him, not that I would ever think of accepting, of course––_

"And you're actually not too terrible of a friend––"

That's not exactly something you say if you want to confess to someone. But this was America he was dealing with. Could he really be attempting to––

"So I was wondering if…"

_Bloody hell oh bloody hell this cannot––I don't want to––_

"If you would––hey, England, are you alright?"

The old country certainly did not look 'alright'. Actually, he appeared rather sick and certainly very flustered, face reddish and hands twitching. He stared at his now-lukewarm tea as if it was the most interesting thing to ever exist and fingered the china cup nervously.

"Maybe the tea wasn't good after all…" America mused. "I could, um, make some more. If you want."

Trying not to stutter, Arthur replied, "The tea was...exemplary."

"Oh, so you admit it now!" There was that goofy, dazzling grin again, reminiscent of a child who had just won a piece of his favourite candy. The Brit just grumbled at this, while Alfred added with a small frown, "It wasn't the cookies...er...biscuits, then, was it?" He picked one up to examine it, eyes sceptical.

It was beginning to seem like a blessing that America was so dense, and England was tempted to laugh as the American tentatively took a small bite of the biscuit. Perhaps he had just misunderstood what the man was getting at. But why did that thought cause him to feel a bit sad? "No––no. The biscuits were––they were excellent, really."

"Oh, well––well that's good to hear. Um, but, are you sure you feel okay? One of your faerie friends didn't lay a curse on you, did she?" He chuckled. England couldn't bring himself to respond to the insult, opting only to glower, and this unusual behaviour prompted another sentence from his host, who raised an eyebrow quizzically. "You could always, uh, go lie down or something. Old men like you need their rest, after all, I suppose."

Once again, the insult failed to achieve its usual effect, which usually involved much yelling and swearing. Instead, England sighed out, "Why don't you just finish what you were saying?" He pretended his voice had not sounded vaguely hopeful and instead steeled himself to put the young American down nicely, because of course he would have to say no. Surely he didn't want to say yes––

"Oh, right! So, I was wondering…"

Arthur bit his lower lip sharply.

"You see, like I said, I've been thinking of asking someone out. And we've known each other for like a really long time and stuff, and I actually kind of trust you...despite that whole leaving me alone for years and then sticking random taxes on my people thing and all that, not that I exactly forgive you for it, but––"

_Why must he ramble on like that?_ England twitched nervously, the hand holding his teacup trembling dangerously. His bright green eyes bore a hope in them which, even at this point, he furiously denied. Meanwhile, America continued to (tortuously) pause with a slightly embarrassed expression in his azure eyes, though they still had a determined, 'heores-don't-get-embarrassed!' look in them.

_I can't stand it just say it already you bleeding fool don't look like that of course it's yes I mean how could you not already see that so hurry up before I explode––_

But America's next words left the Brit frozen for a reason very different to the expected, and a thoroughly, terribly, absolutely unacceptable reason at that.

"But! I figure I could trust you with helping me ask Japan!"

..._What?_

* * *

Ohgosh. I want to know what happens next… xD

And sorry that this is rather short, but I couldn't drag the chapter out much more. And naturally cutting it anywhere else would not be right.

As a side note, if there are any odd grammatical errors, I apologise; the majority of this was written at 3:30 AM yesterday...er, this...morning. I've gone through fine-tuning so much that I should have caught them all, but running on about three hours of sleep means it's still a bit iffy...

Hope I don't get severe writer's block. My immune system seems quite weak to it.


	2. Denial: Making Things Worse Since 1776

**Disclaimer**: I didn't own it before, and I don't own it now.

**A/N**: Poor England. I know how you feel. ...INTERNAL CONFLICT TIEM.

And to all my reviewers/alert-ers/fave-ers! You have no idea how wonderful you all make me feel. I didn't expect to get so many so quickly. Thank you! :3

We all know Arthur's troubles with watching his language. You have been warned.

* * *

2. Denial: Making Things Worse Since 1776

* * *

Arthur simply stared incredulously for a moment before quietly and expressively stating, "...fuck."

"Pardon?" the (idiotic, dense) American across from him asked. Silence was all that met the question, and America shrugged, seeming not to notice England's currently very disconcerted state, and soon began blabbering away once again about his various ideas on how to ask Japan out.

The older country did not register any of this chatter. He was beginning to feel rather sick again and attempted in vain to pretend it was not with disappointment, not with the small flutter in his stomach that he refused to acknowledge as he watched America's cheery smile. His mind was not making such a lie easy, however.

_He...it's not...me?_

For lack of anything else to do, Arthur simply blinked, as if he had just awoken from a very odd dream, not that he'd ever dreamt of wanting a blithering idiot like America to ask him out. Unfortunately this action did nothing for the incoherent thoughts which continued to swarm his mind.

_Wait, it's––I can't––what––_

Whether from shock, immense embarrassment, or both muddled together (likely that last one) he could only gape as America prattled on and on.

_All this time––I was sure––the hell––  
_

Not that England would ever admit that he'd been desperately hoping just a second ago that the foolish yank would ask him out. Thank God no one could read his mind, though with the way his thoughts were jumbling together so confusingly, it was doubtful anything could have been gleaned from such an act anyway.

_ Why do I feel so strange?_

He refused to accept the feeling as sadness, instead opting for anger (about America wasting his time, of course), and being the gentleman he was, acted upon the only sensible option when one is going through fierce denial: swearing again under his breath.

The senseless American was too caught up in his own words to notice. "...and he's always been pretty cool and all, you know…"

Alfred sat right before him, but he seemed to be receding, fading slowly backwards. Or perhaps the one fading backwards was Arthur; all at once he felt like a tiny ant in America's world, shivering beneath the shadow of a gigantic shoe, aware for the first time of how insignificant he was. An overreaction? It very well could have been. However, it seemed perfectly appropriate at that moment. And frankly, England could not bring himself to care much for rationality.

Frankly, he felt like a bloody fool.

Frankly, he felt utterly abandoned.

The one person he felt close to, albeit in a roundabout sort of way, obviously did not feel nearly as close to him. Yes, he would admit that America was most likely his only friend, even if they spent all their time arguing. And yes, he would even admit that maybe––just maybe––he had harboured some affection for the former colony. But he still had not been expecting to feel like this, even considering the anticipation from moments ago (no, not anticipation, he just wanted the prat to stop taking up so much time, yes, that was all).

The only things, it seemed, that Arthur could not admit were how exceptional he had become at lying to himself, and the full extent to which he cared for the young country seated before him.

_...It...Why does it hurt?_

Memories came, inconvenient memories; he thought back to all those years ago, back to 1776, back to the humiliation and defeat and loss of self-respect. They had not spoken for years afterwards, though secretly Arthur had wished matters to be different. Always had he entertained the thought that there was a chance Alfred remained distant, that he carried on their pointless arguments, for the same reason England did. Of course this was not so in reality, as had made it self quite clear only a moment ago; he should have _never_ expected it to be so. What with him always acting so convincingly stand-offish, of course things had turned out this way.

His feelings had been realised just an instant too late.

Wait, feelings? What feelings!

But the flustered words of denial were powerless to bring an end to the sadness those piercing blue eyes stabbed into him.

Suddenly, he felt he had to hear it again: that name. Japan. He did not understand why this was. A vague hope that he had imagined the whole thing, a need to dispel his disbelief, a desire to become even more stuck in the rut which had, unbeknownst to him at the time, stumbled into by the silly decision to give into America's demands for once (or so he pretended, since it was certainly not the first time).

Arthur's voice came out unexpectedly steady, a stark contrast to how he felt within. "You're planning to ask out who, now?"

"Kiku, duh. Haven't you been listening to me?"

An arrow of ice. Alfred did not even begun to realise the power of his words; he was much too 'himself' to see the (furiously denied) pain in those two emerald eyes. In fact, Arthur probably appeared more cross than devastated, an expression which was nothing out of the ordinary. Furthering this impression, he let out a humourless laugh.

Instead of the expected flippant comment, this was met only with concern. "You alright? You look like you, I dunno, ate something sour. The tea wasn't bad after all, was it?"

"It's dreadful, actually. Which is precisely why I've drunk so much."

"Your coffee isn't much better."

"The coffee I make is better than this tea? Why, thank you."

America returned this with a blank look before finally appearing to understand that he'd been a victim of the Brit's sarcasm once again and had ended up unwittingly paying him a compliment. Grumbling at this momentarily, he launched back into his incessant chatter, unaware that his companion was still not listening, could not bear to listen.

Arthur told himself the cold ache he felt was due to there being something wrong with the tea after all and attempted a small smile as the American went back to rambling on about his ideas. It came out as more of a grimace, but at least he had put in an effort. Shutting his eyes for a moment to calm the inward shivering that chilled him so, England tried to clear his head and regain a general outward appearance of composure.

_Gentleman,_ he reminded himself, _You are supposed to be a gentleman, are you not? _England knew he'd been acting ridiculous, and it was a stroke of good fortune that the American was too preoccupied with himself to notice up to this point. Yes, good fortune indeed that he had never noticed anything...right?

_But perhaps if he'd noticed before he going this bloody notion about Japa––fuck. Stop this nonsense and say something useful.  
_

Before he could actually follow through with this plan, though, he found himself being addressed by the America.

"..but I was also thinking I could––hey, Artie, are you ignoring me, or what?" Alfred asked, having noticed England's oddly distant smile, and poked the man's shoulder playfully. "You should have better manners than that!"

The sudden contact gave Arthur quite a jolt, and Alfred laughed briefly as the Brit tried to appear as if he had not nearly spilt his tea. But the laughter dwindled as he saw the shift of the Brit's (nearly) genuine smile to a deep scowl.

"Please refrain from calling me that."

With a mixture of disbelief and confusion this time, the American laughed again. "What, you mean––you mean stop saying 'Artie'? Awh, are you serious? I thought you had finally given up on caring! I've been calling you 'Artie' for like, forever! What about Iggy, then, it it okay to stick with Iggy?"

"Damn it, just call me England, won't you?" Arthur said irritably. It was hard to lie to himself, to pretend he didn't care, when America protested like that.

The troubled expression which flickered across Alfred's features after hearing such a strange request did not help either. And there it was again, the hurt––the American looked genuinely distressed at the words. Such a face was difficult to look at, yet Arthur could not look away, for it made so little sense; it had been made obvious that the American was more concerned for a person he spoke to only a few minutes every meeting than the person who had been with him since he was still but a child. Why, then, did he have to look so...affected? Really, really not helping.

Meanwhile, America leant closer to Arthur, tilting his head to one side as if the altered perspective could bring about some insight on the man's sudden coldness, and asked with concern, "Are you sure you're alright? I mean, you were acting weird earlier, and you still seem kinda off somehow..."

_Close._ England turned his head to the side, telling himself there was absolutely no trace of scarlet tingeing his cheeks.

"B-bugger off! I told you, I'm fine." The words came out more bitter than intended, though he supposed that was for the best.

"But your face is all red and stuff." America reached out a hand to place it upon England's forehead, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. Arthur would have moved away, he really would have, had the cool touch not felt so welcome. "It's not a fever, but––"

Alfred's sentence was cut short by his outstretched hand being slapped away by a very flustered looking England. Only half-heartedly, though, could the country manage to say, "I thought I told you to get the hell away…"

"Alright, alright, sheesh," Alfred said after a long moment of gazing at the Brit with that nonsensical mixture of hurt and concern. Why did he have to make a face like that?

"Honestly, you shouldn't act so friendly with every single person you happen to be acquainted with."

The comment was met with uncomfortable silence. Arthur avoided looking at the man across from him, deciding the lemon biscuit in his hand was far too interesting to tear his gaze from (how many had he eaten already, anyway?). Of course they were not just mere acquaintances, but if the American was going to insist on acting so close, it would only make the situation more difficult than it already was.

Trying to manoeuvre away from the awkward moment he'd created, Arthur said abruptly, "Anyway, you said something about...helping you?" Not the most desirable subject to switch to; however, he felt he might as well get this bit over with.

"Ah well, I as thinking since you guys seem pretty close you might be able to help…" Alfred rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, adding, "I mean I was kind of surprised that you and Kiku were never a couple, but I guess...I guess that's good, then. That you're not."

Just as Alfred was too 'Alfred' to notice Arthur's hurt earlier, Arthur was much too 'Arthur' to notice the strange way the American spoke, as if he wasn't completely sure of his own words. Another factor was that Arthur was simply preoccupied with his own, still-jumbled thoughts to pay the American much mind. Reminding himself to try to be happy for Alfred was hard enough. It would be wrong if he couldn't be happy, for that was selfish and indicative of jealousy, a trait completely unbecoming of a gentleman. Besides, it was not untrue that simply seeing America smile made him happy enough, not that he would admit this, even to himself.

Accordingly, the Brit did his best to act normally; after all, the last thing he wanted to do, though yet another line on his 'will-never-admit' list, was to purposefully worry America with his own problems. "Hah, believe me, that would never happen," England scoffed. Naturally, the deeper truth to those words was lost on the American (could the git be any more dense?); he told himself this did not matter. "You really think you have a chance? Since when were you two even close?"

"Um, I mean, I dunno. I guess we are." Alfred looked off to the side slightly, and Arthur wondered why his answer sounded so unsure. Rashness was a defining characteristic of the American

"He's far too sophisticated for you, you know." Hypocritical comment, in a way, but it was true.

"Heroes don't need to be sophisticated. They need to be cool!"

"James Bond managed to be both sophisticated and cool, did he not?" Arthur stated with a look of disapproval.

America's brow furrowed, and England laughed––really laughed, though somewhere deep, it hurt––at him. A semblance of normalcy had retuned for the moment now that they had slipped off topic, and he could ignore that strange twinge in his heart (it was the tea, really!).

"Maybe, but he was British, wasn't he? That's you people's thing. Heroes in America are just awesome! And kinda rash but, y'know, their powers make up for it. Besides, Bond's not a hero! He's just a spy...thing…" _'Spy thing'?_ England sighed as America went on, "I mean he is awesome and sexy like all heroes should be––" here he flashed his trademark smile and Arthur tried not to melt, "––but still!"

Mentally chiding himself for reacting so foolishly to Alfred's (absolutely _not_ dazzling) grin, Arthur retorted, "He's much more of a hero than you'll ever be. He had a little something called intelligence. And sangfroid. And he's a lot better looking than you could ever dream of becoming. Stop eating all that detestable junk food and you might actually have a chance."

"Song...fwah?"

"It means he has composure. Learn some English." The word was actually of French origin, but America didn't have to know that. It would just lead to some comment about resorting to the frog's language.

"Pff. Says the person who calls fries 'chips' and chips 'crisps'. And this," he said, taking the last lemon biscuit from the plate between them, "is a cookie. Besides, that's overrated."

"Which one, composure or proper English?"

"Um, both?" he stated matter-of-factly, taking a bite out of the 'cookie'.

England shook his head, rolling his eyes at the same time. They always did end up arguing over each other's version of English multiple times during any given conversation. One could say it was a sort of tradition. It was a somewhat tiresome argument, though, and luckily Alfred chose to change the subject at that point.

Not so luckily, they were back to exactly what England has been avoiding.

Bluntly, America began, "Well, anyway. Er. Will you help me?"

England did the best he could to stall for a bit more time. "And how exactly are you expecting me to help you? I really don't know Japan all that well, aside from the occasional chat." He'd only been to the country's home a couple of times, after all, and he'd paid more attention to the magical creatures there than he did to the country himself. Such things happened to him in many places, actually; there were so many interesting traditional creatures to meet. So what if he earned a few odd looks along the way.

"Um, with thinking of some awesome way to ask him out. Or something. You know. And you could come with..." America responded, pulling the Brit from his wandering thoughts and back into (the sadly lacking in magic) reality.

"Why on earth would I come along? This sort of thing ought to be private. At least, it generally is."

"But I'll be nervous if you're not around…" Alfred whined, his irresistible pout returning. Making such a face should be outlawed.

There was nothing Arthur could think to say. He was much to busy stopping himself finding a deeper meaning in the words which could not, based on current circumstances, exist. Though with the way his insides fluttered, this endeavour was, needless to say, not working out quite so well.

Impatient as always, America prompted "...So you'll help, right?"

He'd stalled far too long, he knew, but Arthur still could not bring himself to answer straightaway. What did the quiet Japanese man have that he did not; what could he do that England couldn't? Kiku was much to reserved to be able to deal well with Alfred, though he always had acted unfazed out of politeness. Culture shock had become a constant problem for the poor man; surely the American, who consumed more burgers in a day than cups of tea Arthur drank in a month, would only make this predicament worse. He couldn't even see magical creatures anymore, like that nice kappa who'd been having a bath when Arthur came to visit! If he attempted to dissuade America from bothering Kiku, it would all be in the interest of preserving the old country's sanity.

And besides, he was just so much better than that boring_,_ dress-wearing ('_yukata_', sure), cat-obsessed, blind-to-his-own-folklore, overly polite, bloody confusing shut-in.

Okay, so maybe it was not only in the interest of sparing Japan.

"Well?" America prompted.

England continued to hesitate. He wished very much to say no, to say so many things, things for which the time was long past. He was even somewhat willing to acknowledge the reason he felt this way, if only it had the potential to change things. Yet he felt, at the same time, that he could not let Alfred down. Not to mention, in the back of his mind, his other side was informing him of the various ways in which he could sabotage America's plans. It was decided, then.

Even so, England could not still the slight shaking of his voice as he answered.

"Yes. I suppose I could spare some time to help you, if it will prevent you from making a complete fool of yourself. Less so than you do naturally, anyway." He smiled sardonically.

"Thanks, Art––I mean, um, England."

_Why does it hurt? _England wondered once more, though he finally understood the answer.

Meanwhile, Alfred wore his usual grin, but the expression did not reach his eyes.

* * *

…'sangfroid' is a very curious word.

Alfred is the most ridiculous fool I can imagine. But an adorable one. And Arthur is the master of denial. He probably could have avoided this situation entirely if he wouldn't so staunchly insist on ignoring his feelings. -tuts disapprovingly-

Japan stuff coming up next! Operation: Sink the Rising Sun. 8O! Good luck to you, Arthur.

Spooky- I think they both deserve to be kicked at this point for various reasons. -.- Somehow, they manage to dig their own and each others' graves simultaneously.

Swinny- I actually do love US/Jp.. But USUK is far better.


	3. Operation Sink the Rising Sun

Disclaimer: My extensive image collection still does not make me own Hetalia. But it does indicate a lot of wasted spare time. xD

A/N: Once again, I must say thank you so much to everyone reading this story! It means so much to me. And, hah, someone in a review was like, "Isn't this supposed to be humour?" And it is, but I had to throw in an Arthur-denial-angst chapter. Had to, you see. Besides, I find his denial very funny. xD; Anyway, hopefully this will be...more humorous? I'm taking this fic more seriously than I earlier intended to, so...yeah.

Sorry this took so much longer! I was so busy last week, and then on top of that got stuck for a bit with the plot… I'm afraid updates may continue to take about this long, since I cannot exactly neglect my studies for the purpose of writing fanfiction… Besides, this chapter is 3x longer than the others, finally. xD

A/N 2: So I edited it a little. If you couldn't tell, writing the middle bit of this was like pulling teeth, thanks to losing inspiration part of the way through. I felt that Arthur's thoughts didn't get enough attention and he was generally lacking in some personality, and have attempted to fix this...

* * *

3. Operation Sink the Rising Sun

* * *

From the very beginning, it was clear that the day was not going to be a particularly good one. Arthur's current appearance––hand clutching his head, yesterday's wrinkled clothes still on, hair even more out of place than usual, murderous and somewhat delirious glare boring through his blaring mobile––was quite the testament to this.

Part of his state could be explained by the events which had transpired not long before that morning. Immediately after returning to London the day after visiting Alfred, having essentially assented to torture himself for the next who-knows-how-long by giving into America's request, England had instinctually headed for the nearest pub. Any place with alcohol tended to leave him drunk beyond believe and depressed to the point of tears, he knew, but as usual he'd convinced himself something like that would not happen this time around. He'd only have a few drinks, he assured himself, and besides, of course he could hold his liquor just as well as that American!

Thus, it was with a pronounced stagger and suspiciously damp shirtsleeves that he had finally managed to make it back home and collapse unceremoniously upon his bed, where he remained sprawled until the aforementioned mobile decided it had to ring. After taking a moment to recall what one what is supposed to do with a ringing phone, he flipped it open. Relief; the noise had ceased.

"What k'nd-a…bl'ddy…r'ng'ng m' at this 'ime 'f the…'ello?"

At this not-so-convenient moment he remembered that phones tended to generate more noise upon being answered rather than stopping it, and he wondered if he shouldn't just close the bloody thing again and return to sleeping. The voice that greeted him, however, halted any intention of doing so.

"Artie! Hey!" Naturally, America paid no heed to the dreadful quality of England's voice. Jovial as Alfred's voice sounded, he probably had no intention of paying any heed to anything at all, really.

Automatically, Arthur corrected, "S'Engl'nd."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I was thinking of going to see Japan today!"

Arthur groaned. Was it just his imagination, or did the pain in his temple just grow ten times worse with the mention of Japan? He clutched his head more tightly.

"I'll meet you near his place around three, 'kay? See ya!"

Without pause for any response, the line went dead. After a few moments, Arthur remembered he should probably put down the mobile, which was still pressed to his ear, and managed with some effort to sit upright. This was not such a good idea, he soon discovered, as he doubled over in pain, head pressed against his knees. He wasn't quite sure why he was even bothering, but he eventually achieved the feat of getting both his legs over the edge of the bed. Hey, it was a start. Finally, Arthur found himself standing, and through much swearing was able to pull on some unwrinkled trousers and a white shirt. The buttons proved too much of a hassle for his fumbling fingers, however, and he resolved to figure those out later. For the time being, it was much more important to figure out what to bring Japan, since he'd be visiting him soon. It felt rude to give nothing after not seeing him for so long.

Arthur headed for the kitchen.

* * *

"Um….Artie? What are those?" 'Those' referred to a plate of strange, terribly burnt lumps of something; England (now in a crisp suit, with the only evidence of the previous night being his somewhat bloodshot eyes) was balancing a tray of them atop his right hand while a very cross expression darkened his face.

"England. And they are scones."

Alfred tapped one of the 'scones' suspiciously, one eyebrow raised. It sounded more like tapping a block of stone, and Arthur turned his head to the side to avoid being made to acknowledge this. Before the American could attempt to eat one, thus confirming that the 'scones' were much more closely related to rock than to baked goods, he snatched the...thing...from Alfred's hands and said, "You simply do not appreciate good food. Japan will like them."

America chuckled. "Whatever you say, Artie…"

"It's England. And you may insult my cooking, but I can say this: what the hell are you wearing? You look as if you rolled out of bed this morning with that already on." Indeed, Alfred was wearing essentially the same clothes he always did when not at a meeting: his favourite bomber jacket, a plain T-shirt, jeans, and trainers. Of these, all but the trainers were somewhat wrinkled, and if it were possible for shoes to be wrinkled, Arthur was sure they would have been as well. Besides, they were not in the best of condition, worn and muddy. It was so...America. But Arthur would never admit he wouldn't have it any other way, and thus added, " It's not what one would consider proper for a date… Japan is sophisticated, not a simpleton like you."

"Awh, Artie––"

"England!"

"Give it up already!" America sang as he danced off towards Japan's house, not bothering to finish whatever he'd been about to say. Arthur had no choice but to grudgingly follow, and took this opportunity to briefly grab the sleeve of America's jacket. Only to slow him down, of course.

A few steps from the door, Arthur finally posed the question which had been bothering him since his arrival, though he already knew the answer: "So, what exactly is your plan?"

"Plan?" Alfred looked as if he'd never even heard the word before. "Well, I mean, that's what I brought you along for, isn't it? I figured I'd just go in and, uh, ask. But I knew you'd stop me." He grinned, and Arthur let out an exasperated sigh.

"Git."

"Love you too. Now what's the plan?"

If only Alfred understood how those first few words pierced through Arthur so. Despite being in jest, they gave him quite the jolt, though he told himself the red on his face was out of anger at the American's failure to plan ahead and nothing else.

"Oh, for the love of… Well––well fine. Let's go and search for a flower shop or something, then."

So they left Japan's garden and began wandering down the road, though not without America first insisting that England dump his 'scones' among the other rocks there. They blended in quite splendidly, after all. It was a wonder Japan didn't notice their presence at this point, with the ruckus the two made as they quibbled over the tray of whatever-the-hell-England-'baked', which in the end resulted in all the 'scones' flying into the air and landing with a splash in the small goldfish pond on the left side of Japan's garden. Whatever became of the poor fish in said pond is anyone's guess. In any case, Arthur did manage to save one 'scone', which he kept tight hold of throughout the rest of their search for a flower shop.

Luckily for Alfred and not so much so for Arthur, the place for which they were searching was only a ten minutes' walk away. It was a quaint little building, its front overflowing with vermillion, pink, crimson, white, lavender, and all other shades imaginable and a friendly-looking cat statue stationed outside the door. It opened with a jingle, revealing a small room just as overfilled with colour as outside, and a muffled "_irasshaimase_" came from somewhere in the back.

"So, what kind should I get?" Alfred asked as he wandered past the rows of flowers.

"Chrysanthemums, obviously." Arthur replied, pointing to a section dedicated solely to the plant, which he decided then and there was the most detestable flower to ever exist. To avoid looking at them, he turned his attention to examining a collection of white peonies instead. Not that he liked them, or anything.

As England fingered one particularly elegant bloom with a distant smile, he failed to notice America coming up behind him. "I could get you one of those if you want. Since I'm getting flowers anyway and all."

Arthur jumped and spun about. He meant to protest this, really, but all he could manage was a startled, "E-e-eh?"

"I didn't know you liked flowers so much, Artie!" America added with a laugh.

Before England could manage to say something a bit more meaningful, having been disarmed further by America's adorable––no, no, infuriating––grin, Alfred had plucked the best peony from the bunch and was fumbling with his wallet at the register. But naturally, since it was America, even the simple act of paying for some flowers had to become an ordeal.

"_Issen roppyaku gojyuu en desu,_" said the shop's owner, though upon noticing Alfred's blank stare, she turned the digital display towards him and pointed at it with a hopeful expression. ¥1650, it read.

Alfred looked over at the still mildly in shock Arthur with a confused expression. "Hey, why's it say so much? And what's that weird little 'Y' with the two lines?"

"Haven't you heard of yen before?"

"Yen? Huh. But I only brought dollars!" There was the pout again. England had his wallet out without a second thought.

"It's not as if every single country uses the same currency you do, you twat."

Money was traded, and England stuffed the American dollars into his wallet. He would later forget to exchange them for pounds.

"Well they should!" came Alfred's retort as he picked up his bundle of chrysanthemums and the single peony, which he appeared to contemplate for a moment before snapping off part of the stem and placing the shortened flower into the pocket on the front of Arthur's coat. The Brit spluttered, praying his face was not as red as it felt, and gave America a good kick, but he did not remove the flower. It...matched the coat nicely.

They exited the shop ("_Arigatou gozaimashita,_" came the call from behind), and all too soon Arthur found himself once again staring at Japan's home. He discovered he could not move at first; so much for the resolve he'd been trying to build up along the way back.

"Oi, Artie––"

"England," he corrected, though by then he'd given up on hiding the lack of sincerity.

"––yeah, are you coming or what? See some Japanese faerie or something?"

"They're not faeries…those are mainly around my house," Arthur said matter-of-factly. He still hadn't budged. "O-oi, what the hell are you––" America, impatient as always, had opted to stomp over and drag the Englishman to the door by his tie rather than wait around until he stopped muttering about faeries. "Let go of me!" Miffed, England managed to pull away and crossed his arms in a huff as America knocked on Japan's door; a few moments later, it slid open.

They were greeted by a rather tired and perplexed looking Japan. His dark hair was ruffled slightly, and he tried to smooth it down inconspicuously, though without much success; the blue _yukata_ he often wore looked similarly dishevelled as his attempts at straightening it failed as well. "Um, America, England, what a pleasant surprise," he said, morphing his expression into a thin smile as he motioned for the two to enter. Upon noticing the flowers America held, he raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about them. "Please step inside...it's hot today, isn't it?"

At this, England turned to America with a glare. "You never told him we were coming, did you," he stated flatly. He should have expected something like this, and indeed was not all that surprised, but he could not prevent himself from burying his face in one palm out of annoyance. How could one person be so insufferably inconsiderate? "Honestly…" he sighed, though it was with a small smile that he did so.

Of course, America was not particularly paying attention to Arthur's suffering. He had already stepped (more like 'bounced') inside with a cheery, "Hey Japan! How's it going?" Adding to the list of ways in which he had difficulties thinking of others, he had neglected to remove his shoes in the process.

Arthur felt a strong urge to trip him, and after removing his own shoes first, did just that.

"Take off your bloody shoes before you enter someone's house, idiot."

Grudgingly, the American obliged, while England glanced at Japan with a knowingly sympathetic expression.

"Please don't worry about it," Kiku said quietly. At that moment there was an odd bump from some other room, and while attempting to conceal his suddenly nervous expression, he quickly added, "Please excuse me for a moment while I tidy up a few things. Sorry." England gave a nod as the Japanese man scurried off towards a small hallway, muttering something unintelligibly in his native language.

Meanwhile, America had returned and wandered into the room past the entrance, where he plopped down before a low table upon which he laid the chrysanthemums. Arthur followed, taking a seat beside him, and rested his elbow on the table, propping up his head with his hand. It was impressive that he lasted until then without feeling tired, really, given his state early that morning. As they awaited Kiku's return, an awkward silence stretched between the two, interrupted only by the occasional bump from whatever room he'd had gone into, and Arthur found himself gazing wistfully at his former colony. Finally, some peace.

...Or not. Inevitably, the quiet of the room was broken by a rather obnoxious voice to Arthur's left. "Hey, earth to England! Hello?" A hand waved before his face, and England shoved it away distractedly.

Two sky-blue eyes came to stare into Arthur's vacant green ones, startling him from his thoughts. "Hey.." America said again, this time trying out the tactic of poking the Brit's cheek a few times. As if he hadn't already got his attention with those eyes. England swore mentally as he realised his face was probably growing red _again_, while at the same time wondering vaguely why he could have sworn he'd heard a strange 'click' just a second ago.

It was at that moment that Japan chose to appear, or at least to make his presence known with a small cough, as when the turned towards him he was already leaning against the entrance to the hallway in a way which made it seem as if he'd been there a while. He had a strange smile on his face, England noticed as the man took a seat across from them, but it quickly returned to his usual composed expression.

"I apologise for making you wait," Kiku stated politely.

"Oh, it's quite alr––"

"Here!" Arthur's reply was cut short by Alfred, who had picked up the flowers and was holding them out to Japan. The old country was unable to hide his confusion as he took the bunch of chrysanthemums and set them down before him.

"Um, thank you, America...but what are these for?"

"I just, uh, felt I should give you something! Yeah," he answered, while nudging England in the ribs with his elbow as if to say, "You still haven't come up with a way for me to ask yet…" The only response this got was a roll of the eyes. Really; did he have to rely on Arthur for everything? All this time, and he could still be such a child.

To spare the hopeless American from having to explain further, Arthur cut into the 'conversation'. "I brought you something as well. It's not much, but it would be rude to visit after so long without bringing anything, would it not?" With that, he held out the last remaining 'scone'. "There was a bit of a mishap––" here he glared briefly at Alfred, "––with the rest, but I do have this scone left."

Japan smiled nervously and took the 'scone', which he poked cautiously with his other hand. If at all possible, the thing was even more rock-like than before. "T-thank you, England. I'll be sure to enjoy it."

It was Arthur's turn to jab Alfred in the ribs, a gloating "I told you he'd appreciate my cooking!" smile spreading across his lips. This time it was the American rolling his eyes and giving a sympathetic glance to Japan, who tried to smile as if the thing in his hands, if consumed, would not lead to another Hiroshima. Hopefully there was some way to dispose of it safely…one which did not involve tossing the 'scone' into a fishpond without any regard for the poor creatures living within. Arthur, though, naturally, had figured the fish would be glad for the extra food and thus thought nothing of it, just as he beamed now at how 'grateful' Japan was for the gift. Now, if only he could figure out how to get America to eat his food again, everything would be perfect.

Well, aside from the issue of America planning to ask out Japan. The moment seemed unbearably close. Oppressively so. Arthur found one thought running through his head:

_Stall for time, stall for time, stall for time––  
_

Before he could figure out a way to do so, Japan spoke. "So um, America, England, may I ask your reason for visiting me today?"

Arthur blanched. He was too late.

"Oh, right!" Alfred said enthusiastically. England looked to the side, as if that would somehow prevent the next few words from being uttered. Blunt as always, America said, "Will you go on a date with me?"

The words sent a jolt through Arthur. The Brit, furiously trying to look indifferent to this proclamation, stole a glance at Kiku. The Japanese man, startled, could at first only blink a few times and stare at America as if he'd gone (more) insane. "Hah? Er, I mean––"

Alfred stood abruptly, dragging Kiku upwards with him by his sleeve. "Come on!"

"Wait––ah––where are we going, America?"

Japan tried with little success to escape from America's grip, and looked at England pleadingly. However, Arthur could only watch these antics, frozen by incredulity and annoyance at America's daftness. Not that this was anything particularly new, but he still simply could not come to terms with the thought that he ever enjoyed being with such an imbecile. _How the fuck did I fall in lov--wait, no, what? I'm certainly not in love with anyone––_

England's storm of denial was cut shot as he, too, was dragged upwards. As luck would have it, he lost balance and found himself crashing into Alfred, to whom he clung as he tried to regain his balance; of course, the moment he realised his current position, his his hands clutching Alfred's jacket as the man laughed at him, he pushed away, flustered. He could have sworn he heard that odd 'click' from earlier again, but Japan (who was rather quickly stuffing something away into a pocket) spoke then, and the thought left him.

"Not to mention, if this was your intention, then why did you have England come?"

This gave the American pause for a moment, his large grin frozen upon his face while his blue eyes looked on blankly, and Arthur could tell he had no idea how to answer either question. But if there was one thing America was good at, it was BS-ing. Actually, that was probably the only thing he was any good at.

"We'll, um, go…"

"Park," whispered Arthur, trying to help, though he wasn't quite sure why. "Cherry blossoms."

"...to a park! Yeah, the cherry blossoms are around this time of year, right? Right!" He smiled brightly, as if that could make anything he said convincing enough, and threw an arm around Japan's shoulders. Arthur wanted very desperately to pull that arm away from the very nervous-looking country. "And, oh, well you know how Artie has like no friends! So I figured I'd let him hang out with some _real_ people for once. Haha!"

All this earned him was a kick in the shins and a very cross England storming towards the door. Insult to injury, indeed.

"Let's just go."

Something in his tone made seem like a very bad idea to not follow.

Thus, they found themselves not twenty minutes later at a small but beautiful little park, its criss-crossing gravel paths lined with brightly blossoming cherry trees in various colours––white, light pink, bright pink––whose petals danced lightly in the breeze. It was late afternoon by then, and golden sunlight filtered elegantly through the branches, dappling everything beneath with swaying patches of light and shadow. A clear river ran alongside the path, rippling gently as leaves and flowers floated down to rest upon its surface. This connected to a pond, the centre of which bore a lone tree on a tiny patch of dry land; bright orange, red and white koi could be seen every now and then slipping past beneath the surface of the water.

Arthur sighed, drawn in by his surroundings, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be appearing angry. He found himself wishing it was just him and Alfred there, no Kiku, who looked mildly uncomfortable anyway as America babbled loudly about some random happening. Yes, just them, hand in hand––

His expression darkened as he shook the image away furiously. What was he thinking? Such ridiculous and sappy thoughts were so unbecoming. Arthur crossed his arms with a grimace and glanced towards Kiku and Alfred, who were walking together further up the path. _Why are they so...close?_ He picked up his pace subconsciously to catch up with the two, and on impulse inserted himself rather conspicuously between them. Japan didn't seem to mind this (he appeared rather glad, really), but America spoke up with a huff:

"Hey, what are you doing?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "This is supposed to be a date, you know? As in you don't bother us much unless I need ideas or something? Since that's kind of why you're here."

Rather than becoming angry as he should have, Arthur looked down, hurt. How could Alfred not tell what all this was doing to him? Thought it might have been a bit more accurate to say 'what Arthur was doing to himself'. His knack for choosing bad times at which to take the childish country too seriously, to go along with his generally foolish plans, was not helping the situation much. If only he'd look up, he might have seen the concerned expression across America's face, seen all the times America had glanced back at him while speaking to Japan…

In any case, Alfred did not push the subject further, and Arthur was left alone with his thoughts for the time being. This was not necessarily a good thing, however, for it was at that moment that his devious side decided to take over, the rebellious pirate bit of him that occasionally still managed to override his concern with being gentlemanly. He could come up with a plan to ruin their date yet, thus guaranteeing the two would never dream of being a couple, it told him. Perfect. And this was only to help America, of course. He and Japan would never work out! Arthur was just sparing him the hurt.

Meanwhile, with perfect timing, America had wandered over to the river and was leaning over it precariously while exclaiming something about fish to Kiku, who nodded politely every now and then. He knelt down and leaned over it a bit farther, watching the koi swim about with childish fascination. Arthur smirked as he walked over to the pair, an evil gleam in his eye. This was much to easy. He proceeded to "accidentally" bump into Alfred, who went careening forward with a yelp…

...only to be caught deftly by Japan, who frowned slightly as he helped the young country right himself. _Goddamn bloody ninjas._

Arthur could only stare at the two, wide-eyed, his hand slowly clenching into a tight fist. Kiku still had a hand of Alfred's shoulder and was looking at him with such concern. _Why the hell did they have to stand so close together like that, and––oh God why is he leaning closer what if they––if they kiss or something––no that can't do that––never––no––stop looking at him like that damn it––got to get them apart––_

"Gah!" Arthur gripped his head with one hand. He needed to calm down. He needed to think, and––and––_are they holding hands? That can't be right!_

He slapped himself mentally. It had just been an illusion; Arthur let out a long sigh, trying to relax a little. So, the first attempt had failed. Fine. He was content to wait until another opportunity presented itself.

It came soon enough. America was chatting away to Japan once more, this time beneath a tree which just happened to have partially-snapped branch dangling from it that seemed ready to fall at any moment. It hung by barely a thread of bark, swaying directly above the blue-eyed country's head. Arthur eyed it with a dark grin; perhaps he'd be able to knock some sense into the twat, finally. It's not as if a mere tree branch could do much more damage than their usual little fights, but it would be enough to bring an end to the day's activities.

While the two were not looking, he sneaked around behind the tree and gave the trunk a good kick. He quickly moved away, making himself appear completely unrelated to the tree's sudden swaying; however, it shook for only a few moments, then ceased movement. Arthur, frowning, was about to go back and kick it again when there was a resounding crack from above. A shout rang out, and Arthur spun round to see if it had at all worked, face hopeful.

The sight before him was certainly not what he had been intending.

_Oh, you _cannot_ be serious.._

In a feat of perception, at least for him, Alfred had managed to notice the branch when it began to fall. Following that, he'd instinctively leapt away with a shout. And crashed right into Japan. He clung to the small man for dear life, who was attempting to calm him while at the same time extracting himself from America's embrace. Embrace?

_They're––hugging. Fuck. What does that arse think he's doing? He can't honestly expect Japan not to mind something like that––but why hasn't he let go yet––that look––again––stop––  
_

Arthur, fuming, slammed his fist against the tree trunk and stormed off. Not that seeing them like that made him jealous. He was just angry that Kiku was leading Alfred on (for he had to be leading him on, right?), even if it was in the country's overly polite nature to not express his own opinions until he felt it was acceptable.

Well. Time for a different approach. The gentlemanly tactic of manipulation.

During a brief period in which Japan had wandered away from America, most likely to avoid the incessant chatter he'd been subjected to for the majority of the time they were at the park, Arthur took the opportunity to sidle up to the younger country. He'd start the conversation out as normally as possible, he decided.

"So how's your, er, date going, Alfred?"

Appearing confused by the Brit's sudden inquiry, he replied, "Fine, I guess."

"That's good to hear…" Arthur said vaguely. Time to implement his plant. "So you don't feel like you're making any sort of...mistake, rushing into things like this?" Arthur continued, placing one hand gently on America's shoulder.

"Um, what do you––what do you mean?" he asked with an awkward chuckle.

England leant a tad closer. "I mean, you really think you have a chance?" He trailed his hand down America's arm softly, while being sure to wear a concerned frown as he spoke. "You think he's really interested in you?"

A hint of doubt clouded Alfred's eyes, and Arthur smiled internally upon noticing this. _It's working...yes..._

"I, I mean, I guess so," Alfred stammered. Pause. His expression slowly shifted from worry to annoyance. "H-hey, didn't you come along to help me out? Jeez. You're acting like you're jealous or something."

England's eyes widened. _Jealous? I most certainly am not. Nothing of the sort! Why would I ever be jealous of such a daft fool? It's not as if he's cute and hilarious and ever since after that revolution business I've––oh, not again...  
_

America was continuing, blind to England's little internal strife. "I mean, I could try and hook you up with someone, I guess. Though that would be pretty hard...those eyebrows..the whole 'talking to stuff that isn't there' problem…the food, if you can call it that..."

It was like being stabbed repeatedly in the face. Couldn't the American go even a few sentences without finding some way to insult him, especially after everything else he'd been subjected to that day? But he could not let it show that the words caused any pain,especially not at that point. Thus England's expression quickly shifted from shocked to indignant (and tomato-red), as he shouted,"What was that? Idiot!"

"Aw, come on, you know I was just kidding!" Alfred exclaimed with his usual winning smile. Arthur could not help but let his expression soften a little at this. That is, until the sentence was continued: "...mostly."

Arthur groaned and aimed a punch at the American, who danced backwards from it with a chuckle and ran off, calling, "Bet you can't catch me, old man!" England chased after, swearing all the way, and the usual bickering about language differences, food, and manners began, as usual. The idiotic country could really learn a few things about proper English; really, he was so much better off as a colony...not to mention his absolutely atrocious foods.

But after a short while gave up on catching the troublesome man and opted simply to sigh and return to looking cross.

"Don't worry, Arthur," Kiku said quietly, appearing alongside the Brit.

"Hm?"

"Everything will turn out as it should, so please do not worry yourself too much."

Arthur tilted his head to one side, trying to understand the strange words. "...What do you mean?"

Japan only smiled mysteriously at him for a moment before motioning that they should probably catch up with America. England wasn't sure why––perhaps it was Japan's words, or perhaps it was the way in which Alfred in a way that was so 'him', lips drawn into a pout and hands on his hips as he waited––but as he slowly walked towards the impatient American, Arthur found he could not help but smile slightly.

* * *

They had returned to Japan's house when the sun was beginning to set, and at present stood somewhat awkwardly in front of his door, no one making an attempt to speak. All were quiet for different but similar reasons, each of which related in its own way to the situation with Alfred.

At length, Japan broke the silence. "Thank you for the company today. It was very nice to get a chance to leave the house."

"Oh," America said distractely, then perked up. "Oh. Of course!" Arthur gulped, knowing what was coming next. He wished he could just run away and hide, not have to listen to what was coming, but at the same time he thought back to Japan's earlier words and tried to calm down.

"So Japan…"

England bit his lip.

"So, I was wondering––"

Japan cut him off, though. "I am sorry to interrupt, but I know what you are going to say. I'm sorry, America, but I cannot go out with you. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes!" Arthur exclaimed rather loudly, punching the air. America gave him a quizzical stare, and he looked away with a small frown, quickly clasping his hands behind his back.

"But, er, why n––"

Alfred stopped mid-sentence as, to everyone's surprise, the door to Japan's hose slid open, seemingly of its own accord. Before Kiku could react to this, a tall figure emerged and wrapped its arms around the very disconcerted country.

"Greece?" they all exclaimed at once.

"Ah, no, Greece, please, go back inside!" a very flustered Kiku was insisting, as he attempted to push the somewhat sleepy-looking man back into the house. "I asked you to stay in your room, remember?" Greece only gazed at him sleepily before rubbing the back of his head sheepishly with a distant smile.

Alfred and Arthur looked at each other briefly, then back to the pair before them. Some things were beginning to click. Kiku's tired and slightly dishevelled appearance when they had first arrived. The bump they'd heard upon entering. His sudden disappearance into one of the rooms down the hallway to go 'tidy some things up'.

"Well would'ya look at that," Alfred stated, leaning his arm on England's shoulder and watching as Kiku struggled to convince Heracles to go back inside while the Grecian, who had gone back to hugging the smaller man, refused to remove his arms from their present location.

"Indeed," said Arthur, crossing his arms.

"Think we should go now?"

"Brilliant idea."

As the two walked along the pavement together, Arthur could not help but ask, "Are you sad?"

"Ah, nah! It's not like I liked him all that much anyway."

England's eyes narrowed at this, and he raised an eyebrow questioningly. America made so little sense; either he was absurdly shallow or ridiculously stupid. It seemed more like the latter. What had he been trying to accomplish by asking out Japan if he didn't even fancy him? If he was not dealing with Alfred, he'd have thought he was trying to make him jealous or something of the sort...

"I'm still thinking of asking someone out though…"

Arthur could not believe his ears, nor the flip his stomach did upon hearing those words for the second time. "...You are?"

"Yeah!" Alfred was gazing at the other country with a smile. Arthur really wished he wouldn't look at him with a face like that, cerulean eyes sparkling and cheeks just vaguely pink. Of course, he didn't find it adorable at all, he told himself. Never.

"So...Artie…"

Arthur completely forgot about correcting this to 'England'. His heart was beating much too fast. _Is he really going to…?_

"Would you…"

_Yes? Oh God he is isn't he––but no I have to refuse of course––but dont want t––oh what am I thinking and why is he taking so long to say anything––  
_

"...come with me to see Russia sometime this week?"

Arthur felt as if he was about to faint.

* * *

This certainly does not sound very good. Really; what is Alfred thinking? -.-

And yes, that little detail of Arthur having trouble with the buttons was written for the sole purpose of having an excuse to imagine him with his shirt unbuttoned. I admit it. XD

This is random, but my little crack ending for this chapter would be for Japan to take another picture of them (BeiEiFan!Japan is love..), but since it's around sunset there would be a flash because he forgot to turn it off...hehe~

Anyway, thanks for reading! Reviews are much appreciated.


	4. Russian Roulette

Disclaimer: Amazingly enough, Hetalia's still not mine.

A/N: So instead of studying, here I am writing…see what you people do to me. But ironically, we're studying Russia right now in history. Huh. All I have to say is that the country's rulers are just as bipolar as he is… Meanwhile, the title got this song stuck in my head:

_Sitting this room playing Russian Roulette, finger on the trigger to my dear Juliet, out from the window see her backdrop silhouette, this blood on my hands is something I cannot forget…_

Great song. Strangely fitting, too. A chocolate chip cookie for anyone who knows what band it's by! Or perhaps a chocolate chip-covered Arthur..._hahaaah_… xD;

* * *

4. Russian Roulette

* * *

The day came too fast. Much too fast. Although, the rapid passing of time could be attributed to England's equally rapid consumption of alcoholic beverages since hearing the words "go", "see", and "Russia" all in the same sentence, not to mention that sentence having been spoken by America. Or perhaps not. At this point, he couldn't quite be certain of the cause for anything, really.

America suddenly showing up at his house on the morning of that much-feared day didn't help much, either. At least it had somehow managed to actually be sunny out, though what with Arthur's mixture of trepidation and annoyance, which only built as he reluctantly opened the door, rain would most likely be brought about shortly.

Alfred leant casually against a pillar, arms crossed, with a wide grin plastered upon his face. It was such a typical pose for Alfred, cocky and childish at the same time. Arthur was reminded of when the country was still a colony, still young (though already taller than himself), still "appreciative" of his cooking. But now he was grown, and so much more…

He decided to let the thought end there before his day got any worse, though there was no helping him staring for a moment at the undeniably beautiful American before him.

"Why are you here?" he asked flatly.

Alfred shrugged. "Your house is on the way, sort of. So I thought I'd just come get you."

That America actually bothered to consider him for once was somewhat flattering, Arthur had to admit. Which is exactly why he responded with, "I can get to Russia without your help, thanks."

"You sure about that? I mean, an old man like you might get lost… And it's not like you people were ever that great at making maps. Remember around the time you found me? Antarctica took up like a third of the globe!" A gleefully smug smile played across America's face as he shifted to stand upright, arms still crossed.

Meanwhile, England was growing red with irritation, while the knuckles of the hand which gripped the doorknob became steadily whiter. "That was a long time ago! We got better at it! Besides, your 'map of the world' only has yourself on it, bloody narcissist."

"That was only with the _help_ of mapmakers from other countries. And of course it only has me on it; there's no other important things to add, are there?"

"The whole rest of the fucking world is kind of an 'important thing'. Can't you even put neighbouring countries like Russia on it––you know, the one you plan to visit?––or Mexico, or that..northern thing, whatever it's called, or––or _me?_"

"Sarah Palin can see Russia from her house! So I don't need a map. And Texas," here he needlessly adjusted Texas upon the bridge of his nose, "deals with Mexico well enough. Well, if you can call it dealing. That maple guy doesn't matter 'cause no one remembers him anyway. And no one's ever told me they can see you from their house, so you don't mater either."

Arthur groaned. "You are _the_ most insufferable––immature––idiotic yank I have ever had the misfortune of becoming acquainted with."

"I'm the only 'insufferable, immature, idiotic yank' you've ever become acquainted with, actually. Like the alliteration, by the way."

Arthur groaned again, fingers clutching his temple, which was already showing signs of a horrid headache not far off, and began to shut the door again as he retreated inside. Better than dealing with this.

Of course, America wouldn't allow such a thing; he quickly grabbed the edge of the door with a bright smile and a half-laughing, half-pouting 'Hey, hey!' Arthur continued to attempt closing the door, to no avail. Why did Alfred have to be so damn strong? Not wanting to let the silly country win, he tugged on the doorknob with both hands and all his strength, yet it still would not budge in the face of four of Alfred's fingers. And he didn't even look as if he was putting any effort into keeping it there!

"Look. I'm not even properly dressed yet. I'll meet you at Russia's later. But for now, won't you please get the fuck away from my house?"

Alfred didn't say anything a first. England knew what was coming next. It always followed strange silences such as this. And though he attempted to gather the resolve to resist, he had realised long ago (much to his chagrin) that the tactic would always work, just as it had when America was but a child. _Three...two...one...commence pouting._

And indeed, with perfect timing, America was gazing at him with those irresistible puppy-dog eyes, their bright cerulean irises sparkling in the morning sunlight, which only added to the effects of the heart-stoppingly piteous expression. It was beginning to seem quite regrettable that the sun had chosen such a day to come out. England felt as if, inside, he'd melted into an indistinguishable pink goo as he stepped weakly to the side to let the American brush past. America brushed past? He brushed––

England felt a blush coming on and promptly banged his head against the conveniently nearby wall. _Oh,_ _for the love of God…_

Oblivious as always, Alfred didn't notice this skipped towards the kitchen to go and destroy the house or do whatever equally ridiculous thing he had in mind. Instead of going to supervise, which would most likely have been the wiser decision to make, Arthur escaped upstairs to change out of what he'd worn to bed. As to be expected, he settled on a black sweater-vest over a white collared shirt and khaki-coloured trousers. Casual dress. Right.

Upon arriving back downstairs, he wished he hadn't left.

He heard it before he saw it––lots of clanging and bumping and some swearing thrown in between. When he reached the kitchen, running at that point, it looked as if it had been ransacked by a very confused and rather dull thief. The cupboards had all been flung open and random boxes and dishes littered the counter, while America continued to rummage about in curious desperation. It took a moment before Arthur could stop gaping and actually say something.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" he shouted, marching over to Alfred, who continued his frantic search.

"Don't you have any coffee in here?" he whined, as he threw yet another box of tea across the room, and then another––which England quickly caught, as it was not a box but rather a glass jar of very expensive earl grey. He let escape an agitated sigh. It was more like he was dealing with a child than with a grown man. It was nostalgic, in a depressing, 'what did I ever do wrong' sort of way.

"Well if you had bothered to ask, rather than destroying my house––"

"But I need coffee! I came here without having any!" The desperation apparent in his face confirmed this, though it could easily have been an act. Still, such a thing was doubtful. Arthur rolled his eyes; the idiot could not go even a day without having his precious coffee. It was pathetic, really. And completely different from his own need of tea, of course. Completely, absolutely different.

"And no, I will not drink leaves. Ick. Fuck no," he added with a shudder, finally ceasing his search efforts to turn and glare at England. "I need coffee."

"So you'd drink ground up beans, but not leaves. Right."

"They're not actually beans, y'know, they're––"

"Oh, I don't care!" England turned with a huff and reached into a neighbouring cupboard, pulling out a bag of ground coffee without even needing to look. "Here. This is your favourite kind, right?" he said, holding out the package with thinly concealed embarrassment. Alfred was staring from the bag to Arthur and back again rather confusedly, and the Brit felt some satisfaction at having managed to surprise him so. He handed over the coffee with a patronising smile and a 'polite' reminder to clean up before they left for Russia's house, to both of which the American gave a somewhat blank nod. Arthur fetched the coffee-maker before more of his house could be destroyed in its pursuit, and the two prepared their respective beverages in (finally) silence.

Two mugs of coffee, three cups of tea, and one dazzlingly clean kitchen later, the inevitable could no longer be delayed, and they left for Russia's.

England was fretting the entire way there, for more reasons than one:

_What if Russia actually says 'yes'?––Or what if he says 'no' and America decides to try someone even more ridiculous––of he keeps bugging Russia and makes him angry––and what about that water pipe he's always carrying around nowadays––if he starts looking murderous and going kolkolkolkol again?––Or if Belarus comes by?––Or if Lithuania says something stupid again, oh, I hope he's out with Poland or something––Or, no, what if––_

"Hey, are you all right? You look like you're gonna pass out or something."

"J-just...lovely…"

_What it its some sort of trap––he could accept in order to get America alone; the fool would fall for it––and then if he tries to hurt him––or he'll go after both of us––muttering something about becoming one with Russia––or he'll turn out to be with China or something and it will just be awkward after that, and––oh God there is no way this is going to end well, none whatsoever––_

"You sure you're alright?"

"Lovely!"

So it went.

And naturally, it wasn't just one of the predictions that came true later that afternoon. No, it was _all_ of them. And perhaps some extra disasters on the side.

From their very arrival in St. Petersburg, things had begun the downward spiral from bad to worse. Arthur had forgotten his coat somewhere along the way, and needless to say, the snowy city through which they now trudged was making this very difficult to deal with. He shivered violently, grimacing as he watched his breath escape in small white puffs, the sight of which only served to chill him further. Even worse, Alfred appeared completely untroubled by the weather. In fact, he looked _warm_. Arthur stared at him with hardly concealed jealousy, though seeing someone so comfortable in such a dreadful chill only made the air seem that much more frigid. But he could not allow himself to admit how cold he was to the American––that would be like waving one of Italy's white flags right in America's face. Pride was always a problem of his.

He shivered again. _I will not ask for his jacket. I will not, I will not––_

Alfred wordlessly draped his bomber jacket over England's shoulders, and if it had not been so absolutely freezing both would most likely have gone quite red.

"W-what are you doing? I d-don't need t-this!" he protested with a scowl, though the chattering of his teeth made such a lie rather difficult to tell. America simply continued to stare straight ahead, and Arthur suddenly noticed the country was gritting his teeth to prevent himself trembling, with only a long-sleeved T-shirt to keep out the cold. He felt his expression soften, and slipped on the oversized jacket without further complaint, feelings mixed. Why did the prat have to make everything so complicated?

With a sigh from the Brit and a small smile from the American, the odd pair travelled the rest of the way to Russia's house it silence.

It was Lithuania who opened the door for them, looking nearly as frightened as Arthur felt––so much for Poland being there to keep the poor country out of Russia's way. There was absolutely no chance in Hell, he decided as they were beckoned inside, that the visit could go well at this point. The timidity in Lithuania's voice as he called for Russia served only to intensify this sentiment a thousand fold.

And then Russia appeared from some corridor to the right, pleasantly cheery smile gracing his countenance.

_He's going to fucking kill us_, was all England could think.

"Hello! I am so glad you two could come." Smile, smile, smile.

_Slowly_, he added, with a glance to Alfred beside him. Naturally, the tall blonde was oblivious to the danger they were surely in, but there was some comfort in the way he greeted Russia enthusiastically back––had the situation been enough to render even America nervous, England was certain they'd be walking to their deaths. After all, magic seemed to have no effect. This was the man who broke Busby's chair! _Broke_ it!

"Please make yourselves at home, da? Come this way, it is warmer away from the entrance, and there are not so many people…" Did those last few words sound ominous? He could have sworn there'd been a muttered '_kolkolkol'_ trailing at the sentence's end, and a glance at the Baltic nations standing awkwardly nearby was not particularly reassuring.

_It was your own fault for going along with the git's bloody ideas… Do this for America's sake… _he repeated over and over in his mind, while following the two excessively bubbly countries into Russia's simple yet ornate sitting room, which though rather outdated had a pleasant antique flair to it. Lithuania trailed behind in an almost ghost-like daze, carrying with him a tray with an ancient looking china teapot and some teacups on it, beside which stood in stark contrast a bottle of vodka and some shot glasses. Both the consideration and alcohol were equally disturbing.

"Thanks, Lithuania!" Russia sang, causing the poor nation to blanch, as he took a seat on the sofa to one side of the room. Two armchairs stood opposite it, into which America and England settled. If, that is, you could call the unnerved way in which England sat upon the edge of his seat 'settling'. "I was not sure which you two would prefer at this time, so I had both brought. Or would the American prefer coffee?"

The final question sounded uncomfortably dangerous, but naturally Alfred was unable to tell. "Coffee sounds great! There's no way I'm drinking _leaves_ like that old man there. There's a reason we dumped it all in the ocean. Hahaha!"

Russia laughed along with him, and England bit his lip slightly, though he quickly ceased the action when he realised a certain scarf-wearing country was studying him with a disturbing gleam in his eye. Russia smiled warmly upon being noticed and poured himself some vodka, while Arthur accepted a steaming teacup from Lithuania, his hands trembling. He resolved not to lay a finger upon the alcohol that afternoon, lest his drunken behaviour land them in even greater danger, and instead sought to allay his fears by downing his tea in just a couple gulps, followed in quick succession by the consumption of two more cupfuls.

Such a thing did not go unnoticed. "The tea is good, da?" asked Russia, though it was more of a statement. A rather forceful statement, at that.

"Oh––oh. It's, yes, it's quite––quite excellent, really. Yes," Arthur stammered. Lithuania was refilling his cup for the fourth time, and he desperately wished the country would go off to find Poland or something before he––

"I would have used some nicer china, but this old stuff is all I could find. You should really trade more, huh, Russia?"

_Well...fuck._

The silence that followed was so thick, it could have easily repelled Hungary's frying pan. Lithuania blanched, and a deep shadow seemed to cross Russia's face.

_Kolkokol… _

"That tea set was a gift from Yao many years ago," Russia stated with deadly calm, his voice decidedly deeper than it had been just a moment ago. "He gave it to me after we escaped Mongol rule. It is a very special set."

_ Kolkolkolkolkolkol…_

Lithuania let escape a tiny 'eep', glancing from the stormy, murderous-looking Russian to the two Western countries (one petrified, the other observing with an uncomprehending grin) and back again, as if the pleading expression upon his face would solve anything. Finally he managed, "O-oh, yes, it's a––a splendid t-teapot. H-how could I h-have ever said o-otherwise! I'll, um, I'll g-go make the c-coffee!" and promptly fled the room. At this point, Arthur had already abandoned his tea for a glass of vodka, which he contemplated for a moment, the reflection of his wide green eyes staring back both desperately and accusingly, before finishing in one swallow. So much for resolutions. But if Alfred was really intending to ask this––_thing_ out on a date, there was no way Arthur could survive on tea alone. Especially with that blindingly cheery, bloody frightening smile which had already found its way back onto Russia's face staring straight at him.

"I am so glad you are enjoying my vodka, England!" At this, Arthur blanched and held off on drinking his second shot glass' worth, which he'd had held up to his mouth at the moment Russia decided to speak. "Anyway, why did you two come here? You said something of having a question, America, did you not? It is not as if I am not busy, but I made the time for this. It is so _nice_ to have company!"

Words with such heavy innuendo really should not be uttered with a smile. England gave in to the clear liquor then, pretending there was not a dark glint in Ivan's eyes as he did so.

"Oh, yeah, right." America paused briefly, and for that moment Arthur could entertain the belief that he would not go through with his ridiculous plan this time around. But the dreaded words came, for the second time: "I was wondering, uh, if you'd like, go out with me. Yeah."

The smile seemed to freeze blankly on Russia's face, which could be assumed to be his version of looking perplexed. "I don't think I can––"

"Oh, come on, just one date or something, 'kay?"

The grin was slowly dimming. "America, I am saying no––"

"Come on! You're outdated enough as it is, you needa get out more!" Alfred grinned his cheeriest grin. Arthur gulped another shot of vodka. He was beginning to feel decidedly out of sorts, but as he watched that strange darkness begin to drape itself over Russia's features, he frankly could not bring himself to care. More liquor was consumed. The world was beginning to appear slightly fuzzy, tilted.

At length, Ivan spoke, his menacing air so unconcealed it was a wonder America could not perceive it: "…fine." He stood and strode over to where America was seated. "Why do we not go somewhere a bit more private, da?" The smile that accompanied this proposition was all at once condescending, sardonic, and downright evil.

There seemed to be two overlapping Ivans by now, to Arthur's alcohol-clouded eyes. He found himself staggering upwards from his chair, shouting drunkenly, "Oi, just...what are...you intending to...do, you...you wanker!"

As intoxicated as he was, Arthur could tell that perhaps this was not the best choice of words, as the (now three) darkly grinning Ivans turned slowly to glare at his unsteady form. Naturally, he gulped another shot in a nervous reflex. Meanwhile, America finally had allowed some worry to seep into his features and was moving to stand when another of Arthur's prior predictions came true.

"I, um, brought you some more tea, aru!"

An uncomfortable-looking China was greeted by three pairs of startled eyes. They were the last things he saw before he had the air crushed out of him by a massive hug from Ivan.

"You have come, Yao! I was missing you so much!" His voice was excruciatingly cheerful.

"I'th on'y b'n 'n 'our," the Chinese man somehow managed to mutter with an uneasy chuckle against Ivan's scarf as he struggled with little success to free himself. "W't're th' d'ng h're?"

Not bothering to release his captive, the Russian looked towards Alfred and Arthur, his face as bright as the sunflowers he so loved. "I was just entertaining these guests!"

That was the last Arthur recalled before presently passing out, muttering something which sounded distinctly like "Bloody hell.." along the way.

* * *

He awoke to discover he was once again in his own home, lying upon his sofa. America hovered over him with a slightly relieved, though still troubled, look clouding his sky blue eyes.

"Finally! Geez. How long's it going to take for you to realise you really should avoid drinking? I mean, seriously. You know can't hold liquor at all."

His head chose to inform him at that moment just how painfully it was throbbing, and Arthur groaned, "….sod off."

Alfred stuck out his tongue, and Arthur wondered for the millionth time why he had to be so adorably childish. His immediate reaction to this thought was, of course, to attempt to bury it as he covered his face with one hand to block out the light. And perhaps to hide some red.

He watched through his slightly parted fingers as America sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry. But you really should lay off the drinks. Can't be good for you."

England simply 'hmph'ed and changed the subject. "So, er, what happened, exactly? After I passed out."

"Oh! Yeah, you totally missed the best part! Cause even though China came and Russia was all happy––feel sorry for that guy, Yao––anyway, he still looked all murderous and stuff, which was when you fainted, and he totally was going to attack us with that crazy water pipe he carries around, but you know, I'm the hero, so I pulled some awesome moves like in action movies and was completely awesome and––"

"America."

"Yeah?"

"Tell me what actually happened, you twat."

"Okay, okay. So Russia and China started making out, well more like Russia forced a kiss on China, but still, so anyway they're making out _right there,_ and I'm like 'Holy shit!' so I tell them to get a room, cause you know, that was just so gross, and then Russia gets all crazy when he sees we're still there and, you know, the water pipe again, and China's trying to hold him back so I pull some awesome and heroic moves and then––"

"_America,_" Arthur stated more severely. Not that Russia forcibly snogging China was particularly surprising, but still.

Alfred gave his best pout, in response to which Arthur tightly shut his eyes before it could wreak havoc on his mental state, and the American was eventually forced to give in. "Fine!" he grumbled, still pouting. "Aw, this is so much more boring, Iggy…"

"Get on with it already."

"...I picked you up and got the fuck out of there. Happy?"

England let out a chuckle and attempted siting up, one hand clutching his head and the other clinging to America's arm for support. Just for support. "...thanks," he murmured, the words barely audible.

"Huh?"

_I cannot believe I am saying this…_ Looking away, England repeated with a sigh, "I said 'thanks.'"

"What was that? I don't think you're being loud enough." America cupped his ear with one hand, an exaggeratedly expectant look upon his face, and Arthur groaned in aggravation.

"This is why I never thank you for anything, you insufferable idiot."

Alfred simply laughed loudly and patted him on the head, to which he of course reacted with both a scowl and small blush. "You're welcome." The red darkened as he realised America's hand was still resting upon his head, messing with his hair distractedly. "So, hey.."

_If he says anything more about asking out some random country, I swear I will––_

"Oh, right, you should probably take something for your headache, huh? You don't look to good."

Moving away from America's touch, England replied in as cross a tone as he could muster, "Could one really expect a person to look well after passing out from over-consumption of vodka at Russia's house? Or rather, after being at Russia's house for any length of time at all?"

America tilted his head to one side, his expression perplexed. "What've you got against Russia? He's a pretty nice guy. Always smiling so cheerfully. And he and China seemed pretty happy, huh? So he must be a sweet person! Even if he does sometimes get a little crazy. It's not his fault!"

Arthur stared dumbfounded at the American. His stupidity truly knew no bounds. Even his people were worried about Russia, so how could he be so oblivious? It went beyond the simple problem of being unable to read the atmosphere. "…The pain medication. Now."

"Oh––right. Here. And some water. I, um, made some tea, too."

England swallowed the pills quickly and took a sip of the tea. As before, it was unexpectedly delicious; he still could not believe the coffee-obsessed American was so adept at brewing tea. _He must have actually been paying attention to me as a colony, back then...but I cannot believe he still remembers…_ he thought, taking another sip with a small smile. Perhaps it was due only to his attitude, but the headache already seemed to be lessening.

"Good, huh?"

"It's rubbish," Arthur stated flatly. "I only drink your 'tea' to be polite, you know. It would be improper to refuse." Arthur knew full-well Alfred could see through the lie, and not because he said he same thing every time––he'd just always been able to tell. But it's not as if he could ever tell the truth.

"Glad you like it. It's your favourite kind, after all, right?" This was quite true. Of course, though, Arthur refused to admit this, and Alfred continued his rambling. "I was gonna get you something to eat too, but it seems like most of the food here's been destroyed by _someone's_ terrible cooking skills. And I figure you still don't understand the pure awesomeness that is the hamburger. So."

"I have no idea who you're talking about. Also, there is nothing 'awesome' about grease placed between two poor-quality pieces of bread with some withered lettuce-like substance and cheese dyed so gold it's painful to look at thrown on top. Oh, and that dreadful excuse for ketchup spread over everything."

"You know you can't really say anything about 'poor-quality' food, right? Not to mention, if you made a burger, the lettuce would be, like, purple-brown and the cheese burnt black, the meat shrivelled into a little crisp and...oh! It hurts just to think about it!"

Arthur opted not to dignify this with a response, instead simply scowling unamusedly. He was not about to give the American the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him for the, what, one trillionth time in the last few hundred years? Besides, Alfred was absolutely wrong. He could make a burger just as well as anyone if he really wished to stoop so low as to do so. There was nothing at all wrong with his cooking! Really; only Japan was refined enough to appreciate it, it seemed; America was simply far too uncouth to understand.

America had crossed his arms and was looking at Arthur with his eyebrows raised in mock surprise at the lack of a retort. "Aw, no 'bugger off's or 'bloody-something's or whatever the hell kind of weird phrases you British people use? Hmph."

"…How about, 'Sod off, you bleeding wanker'?" Arthur suggested, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, like that!" America exclaimed smilingly, ignoring the older country's annoyance as always.

"I _meant_ it, idiot."

"I knew you'd say that!" Alfred exclaimed with a pout, though it was not a very serious one and soon turned into a laugh. "But I also know you're always lying when you do. So..hah!"

"What are you talking about? I certainly do mean it." Of course he did. It'd not as if he liked the stupid young country much. Not much at all.

America only laughed harder. "Yeah, yeah. Y'know, you're really easy to figure out..."

_He did _not_ just say that._ England stared open-mouthed for a moment (He was not predictable! Not in the least!) before shouting, "Well if I'm that damn easy to read, why haven't you noticed yet that––" England stopped mid-sentence, just then realising what he'd been about to say. "Eh––er––I, I mean––never mind!"

America was staring at him blankly. "Noticed...what?"

"I said it's nothing! Never mind! Just––just go and blather about whomever you intend to try asking out next or––or something!"

Of course, he wished such a suggestion would not actually be followed, wished––though he'd never admit to it––that Alfred would pester him until he gave in and finished the sentence. But this was the easily distracted America he was dealing with. "Oh yeah! That!" Alfred grinned broadly. "Well, yeah, y'see, I'm actually not that sure. What to do, I mean."

_So why don't you just stop this foolishness?_

"There's always––huh, no, that won't… We could ask France for advice or––something––eh, or I could talk to...hm...hey, help me think of something!"

But Arthur had ceased listening.

So much for the headache going away.

* * *

I wonder what Arthur was about to swear he'd do. Ehehehahahah…   
There are two correct answers. You will be graded on this.

Also, poor Lithu; even as Russia's ex [Lithuania's Out-Sourcing Series 1!] Russia still will not leave him alone and makes him come over...

And yes, I'm aware that America hates the cold.. But I think he would hide something like that if England were around, no?

Anyway. My inspiration came back! Maybe something to do with wasting time by reading way too many Japanese fan comics… Sorry it took so long, though; I procrastinated terribly on the very end of the chapter.. And may I apologise again for the somewhat half-hearted-ness of last chapter? I hope this one turned out better… Reviews much appreciated. 3


	5. More Helpful Than a Picture

Disclaimer: I am 99.9999% certain I do not own Hetalia.

Edit: I fixed some really weird typos. I'm good at those. I've been sick since Friday, so please don't blame me too much if some parts sound odd!

A/N: The title was too long to fit. ^^; The one up top is just an abbreviation; the full one is below.

Anyway, this is heavier chapter. I think. Also...

France. That is all.

* * *

Sometimes 1000 Words Would Be Much More Helpful Than a Picture

* * *

"I can't believe you were actually serious about this," England muttered. He was seated awkwardly in a (detestable) French café, obstinately ignoring the (disgustingly French) cup of tea America had ordered him in an attempt to mitigate the intense malice radiating from the small country's form, which was directed pointedly at the (hateful) man––no, frog––smiling slyly at them from across the table. He would have punched that grinning face had they not been somewhere so conspicuous.

"So you have come to seek my advice about _l'amour_, dear _Amérique?_" Francis questioned, leaning forward a bit, the suspicious grin still there. Arthur was beginning to think he might punch the bastard anyway, and somehow deepened his scowl even more as the Frenchman's amused gaze studied him for a moment before turning back to America. "Well, that is_ mon __spécialité…"_ he said as he gently took Alfred's and kissed it, and––did he just _wink_? Arthur would have reacted to this, had he not been too busy trying to cope with the notion that France had just kissed his––had just kissed America.

Alfred, in his usual obliviousness, failed to realise how awkward it should be to be kissed like that by someone he was barely close to, and simply grinned brightly at France whilst Arthur grimaced. "Yeah! I know you can help!" Their hands were still together. Wasn't France going to let go? Why wasn't _Alfred _letting go? Arthur was beginning to feel rather sick. Watching them was enough to make him want to throw up, though he hadn't even tasted the pastry that had at some point been placed before him and was slowly meeting its crumbly death via two very annoyed fingers.

Finally, Arthur could not bear to watch such a sickening scene for even a second longer. "Oi, keep your hands to yourself, you disgusting frog!" he grumbled, slapping at the (revolting) hand which still held America's captive. Francis' expression at first turned into a very satisfying look of offence, but that lasted only a moment before he began to chuckle, with America's light-hearted laughter joining in even though he seemed to have no idea what was going on.

Francis rested his head upon one hand and glanced sideways at England, a suggestive smile stretching across his face. "_Just_ my hands?"

Arthur was hardly amused by this. The pasty began to crumble a bit more vigorously. "Your mouth, too! Or, actually, you should just keep your entire disgusting self hidden away. It would be doing society a favour."

"Ah! You wound me!" France breathed with a dramatic flourish, one hand over his forehead, pretending to faint. England merely rolled his eyes. "How on earth do you put up with someone such as this?" Francis, who had made a surprisingly quick recovery from his 'fainting spell', said to America, who throughout the entire exchange seemed to never have ceased the ridiculous smile plastered across his face. He probably thought some endearing scene of brotherly love was unfolding before him, for all he knew about reading atmospheres. But to England's surprise, Alfred actually managed to say something to defend him in response to France's slight.

Sort of.

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with Artie," America protested with a small frown. Arthur found himself letting escape a small smile as he wondered if the idiot really meant it; he couldn't deny that he was somewhat flattered––okay, very flattered and inexpressively overjoyed––by such a sentiment, which was probably the closest Alfred had ever got to saying something nice about him in a hundred years. Until America kept talking, anyway. "I mean, he dresses like he's sixty, his eyebrows are ridiculous, his manners are pretty rough, but––"

So much for joy and flattery and inexpressible whatevers. England's mood instantly reverted to its earlier combination of annoyance and disgust, and the pastry's demise resumed, perhaps more violently than before. "If anyone's manners are bad, it's that bleeding frog bastard across from you! He tries to rape every damned thing he sees!"

France chuckled. "_Oui, oui,_ what an excellent display of English manners were are observing right now, hm?" he said, eyebrows raised. "I am sure everyone delights in being called 'bleeding bastards' and being accused of indecency_._ Besides, as I recall, it was not I who was a delinquent in my youth..._"_

_ "_Your actions go far beyond mere 'indecency'. And do not talk about that!_"_ Not exactly a desirable comeback, but the reference to his pirate days had thrown him off guard. Francis knew it was a subject he shouldn't breach, even during an argument; or at least, he should have known. Especially in front of America! He was supposed to be a gentleman now! Luckily, the American observer of their spat did not question Francis' words.

Arthur's face was growing red now out of anger, and his clenched fist ached. By this point, he could no longer care that they were all out in public; the argument drew enough attention anyway. And besides, the disgusting thing across from him certainly deserved a good punch in the face. Multiple punches. And some kicks for good measure. Perhaps with some extra punishment on the side for all the times France had taunted him, or been a bit too 'touchy', or had ever shown his face within 10 metres of where England happened to be. Was that enough?

He was just about to act on this sentiment when he felt a hand on his shoulder and, startled, looked to the side to see America staring concernedly at him. "Artie, maybe you should calm down a––"

He didn't get a chance to finish. "You're on _his_ side," Arthur stated quietly in disbelief. It would have come out as a shout, really, but he was too preoccupied with being shocked and rather hurt that America was taking the frog's side rather than his. What was the idiot thinking? He couldn't be thinking of asking Francis––

No. That was much too far-fetched. Besides, France was already with––with––whatever that guy's name was. Not that he'd put it past the bleeding bastard to go out with two (or more) people at once. Actually, he'd be surprised if he wasn't already.

"Hey, Artie, no one's taking sides here––"

"Shut up!" he slapped away the hand that still rested upon his shoulder, earning a hurt expression from Alfred, but he frankly did not care at all about the stupid American at the moment. Well, of course he did care, but still. He _knew_ how much England hated France, and yet he was still defending him as if the guy––no, thing––was worth the effort, and––

"My, my, _Angleterre_! You really should work on this anger problem, should you not?" As if to punctuate this statement, it was at that moment the pastry broke rather messily in two. Of course, this merely served as more fodder for the frog. "And look what you've done to my wonderful food! It is like a stab to the heart!" He placed two hands over where his heart was (if he even had one) to emphasise his words. "No, a thousand stabs! Oh!"

Arthur did his best to ignore the drama as he wiped the cream filling of the pastry from his fingers against a napkin, though his anger was still quite obvious in the way in which he was digging the fingers of his other hand into the chequered tablecloth. He would not give Francis the satisfaction of getting to him even more, he would not––

France was touching America again, grasping the confused country's hands between his own disgusting frog fingers. They'd begun talking again while Arthur had been distracted by the pastry issue, and now Francis was saying something about how maybe America should 'rethink this'. Rethink this? Rethink what, exactly? Was––was America really attempting to ask France out too?

Perhaps it was England who should have been 'rethinking' things as he stood abruptly––namely, his interpretation of of conversations to which he hadn't even been listening properly––but he was far beyond rational thought as stormed from the table, out of the café. He had had enough. Enough of America's obliviousness, enough of having to watch him with all these other countries, enough of having to humiliate himself over and over thanks to the obligation he felt to keep the sodding git happy. Especially if America was seriously trying to ask out Francis, of all the terrible choices he could possibly make; it was even worse than Russia! After all, what else would France be trying to tell him to 'rethink' (though obviously he was just saying that to get a response like 'No, I'm sure,' so he had an excuse for any subsequent lewd behaviour)? The fact that America had never said anything to Francis regarding dating did not cross Arthur's distressed, angered, and severely overreacting mind. They were just lucky he hadn't attempted to punch anyone on the way, really.

He could hear France's amused chuckle following him out of the establishment and picked up his pace, zooming by the window before which he'd sat without a glance inside. The frog was probably just waiting for him to peek anyway, with America looking on, clueless as to what he was doing to Arthur by being so stupid, asking out all these people he couldn't possibly care about deeply, not bothering to look right beside him…

Not that Arthur harboured any significant affection for someone so insufferable. Really; the idea was preposterous.

Even at this point, he was the master of denial, it seemed.

_America–– _People were staring at him curiously, but he didn't care.

_ You–_– Tired as he was growing, he kept on going. He realised at some point he'd begun to run.

_ Bleeding––_ He assured himself the little bit of wetness at the edge of his eye was simply a result of running so long.

_ Idiot!_ The word echoed in his head, and he couldn't be quite sure which of them he was referring to. For even as he thought this, he was not angry at America at all––himself and Francis, but not America. He couldn't be.

Building after unfamiliar building whizzed by, and eventually, Arthur slowed his pace. He wasn't sure how long he'd been speeding down the streets of France; it could have been as little as three minutes or as many as twenty. All he knew was that he was currently beside a cute little shop, with a front built decoratively of red bricks and ivy accenting one side––the kind of place one wished to see more often in the modern world, but which at this moment seemed mocking in its quaint peacefulness. He leant heavily against the side of the building with a sigh and attempted to collect himself.

Needless to say, this wasn't exactly easy. He was furious at France and his lecherous ways, upset with himself for always trying to act cold and bringing about such an unfortunate series of events, and frustrated with Alfred for––

Alfred.

Suddenly, Arthur felt guilty. He'd left America alone with France, and who knows what that bastard would try on him when there weren't many people around to see. Sure, the twat had tried asking out England's most bitter nemesis without even a thought about what it might do to the easily-annoyed country's mental state, had insulted him after getting his hopes up. And he'd let the frog hold his hand not once, but twice––twice!––and hadn't at all minded the uncomfortably suggestive look upon Francis' (detestable) face. But it was America. Of course that prat wouldn't notice anything. And now he was alone with France…

Arthur peered back the way he'd come. Alone..

_Fuck! _

Arthur spun about, beginning to race back towards the café without particularly bothering to look where he was going, and proceeded to crash directly into something. Well, more accurately, someone. Arthur looked up, dazed, and tried to make out exactly who it was he'd nearly bowled over, and for a moment was quite perplexed––there did not appear to be anyone there.

"Huh?" he muttered, glancing around in utter confusion. Surely one couldn't imagine walking right into a person? Or was he simply going mental from all the disjointed thoughts battling in his head? Yet the impact had been quite distinct; he'd nearly fallen over. Besides, it felt as if there was still someone nearby, though all he could see before him was empty air.

At that moment, the 'empty air' chose to clear its throat uncomfortably. A person materialised before Arthur, which was to an extent reassuring, but at the same time this brought only more confusion to the already rather disconcerted Brit, for said person could not possibly be who he thought he was seeing.

"America?" he questioned in disbelief. However, the person looked different. A lot like America, but his hair was wrong, wavier, and his eyes were paler and much too sombre looking, and besides, he was wearing different clothes. A white stuffed bear (which was absolutely not adorable) was clutched tightly to his chest. "No, you're––you're, er...you're...in the north...someone…"

"C-Canada.."

"Right! Canada. Um. Hullo," he managed with an awkward smile. What else was he supposed to say? It's not as if one would expect to run, literally, into another country while visiting somewhere other than their home. Especially not––what was it again? Ca-something… Cana… Oh well.

"Did something happen? You were, um, you were running… You look upset..."

Canada's words brought to Arthur's attention his rather sorry state. He self-consciously smoothed down his hair as much as possible, which wasn't much considering its usual state, and made an effort at straightening his clothing. "No, er, it's nothing. I was just in a hurry somewhere."

"Did France do something stupid again? He told me you and my brother were visiting… I tried to make him promise he wouldn't do anything...inappropriate." The country sighed softly, as if he was used to dealing with things like this. Assuming he really was with Francis, he probably dealt with them multiple times a day, really.

Arthur laughed dryly. "Like that would ever happen. That frog bastard will never learn."

His words were meant scornfully, of course, but whatever-his-name-was returned them with a wistful smile. The action seemed familiar somehow; it was the same as the way Arthur inwardly felt whenever he mused about America's childish actions, though in contrast to what's-his-name, he would always hide such a sentiment beneath a scowl. Showing something silly like that was unacceptable to him, even if he was prone to reminiscing.

"Well, I thought since it was me…" invisible-guy responded, trailing off whilst blushing slightly, and stuttered, "N-never mind. Anyway, really, what did he do this time?"

Canada's––that's the name!––countenance was filled with a look of genuine concern which reminded Arthur much too strongly of America. He looked to the side, crossing his arms, and concentrated on suppressing a growing blush. "It's not so much Francis as it is Alfred," he admitted quietly, then quickly added, "I-I mean, America."

"My brother causing trouble? Why am I not surprised.." Matthew laughed briefly in an attempt to lighten the mood, though his pale eyes still betrayed his worry. he was such a kind person. Arthur found himself thinking Francis was kind of lucky. "So what did _America_ do?" the Canadian enquired.

England remained silent, still opting not to look at Matthew. Explaining anything of the past few weeks' events would involve admitting how he felt about the American git to someone else, or even more terribly, to himself.

"I won't tell anyone. I––I know how you feel about Alfred…"

"W-what are you talking about? Feel? I don't f-feel anything but––but disdain for that doddering oaf! Haha! Ha! Hah…" Arthur coughed nervously. Nothing was said by Canada, who simply stared at him knowingly, and he rather unsuccessfully tried to swallow the blush he knew must once again be creeping across his cheeks. "Well––well…well maybe I...I do like him...a little bit…"

Matthew still didn't say anything.

"That's all you're getting out of me in that regard, so you might as well give up," Arthur stated, growing cross. "And as for what America's done––where do I even begin?" he wondered. "Well, he's got this bloody idea in his head that he needs to be in a relationship and is asking out the most random people imaginable––really; Japan and Russia? ––and he's dragged me along to each of these pointless endeavours––even today, when he wanted to see Francis, of all people––and of course, that bastard can't keep his hands to himself _at all_ and Alfr––America is completely unaware of how unacceptable that frog's behaviour is, and naturally I grew pretty pissed off thanks to a certain sodding git forcing me to see that guy, and then America tells me to calm down––to calm down!––when Francis is practically fucking him with his eyes, and––"

"So you ran out..?"

"Essentially, yes."

"And..even though you complain, you're actually angry at yourself."

How the hell did Cana-whatsit know that? Arthur chose not to reply.

"And you left America alone with Francis… T-though I can assure you he won't...do anything."

England was hardly reassured, and paled slightly as he realised he'd been away far too long already, and France could be up to anything. "How exactly would you know that? You really trust such a disgusting excuse for a person that much?" he scoffed. "Or do you know something?"

"Well, y-yes, but..I mean...er…no––never mind––it's nothing!"

At this, Arthur raised a quizzical eyebrow. Certainly a suspect response. Was Matthew somehow involved in this, whatever the hell 'this' was? "Erm, Canada, is there anything going on that I should know about...?"

"N-nothing at all!"

England's eyes narrowed into a sceptical gaze. "I think I'll go back now."

"B-but––"

"Good bye, Canada," England trilled, a bit more dismissively than he'd intended. And with that, he turned on one heel, hands in his pockets, and strode off in the direction of the café. Whatever was going on with the bleeding American prat that Canada and Francis were somehow involved in, he was resolved to find out.

"I-I hope that was enough time…" Canada mumbled to himself as the Brit grew more and more distant.

* * *

Arthur did not enter the café straight away. Instead, he hovered as inconspicuously as possible beside the large front window, which America and France were seated directly behind, and every now and then would take a chance and peek inside. Lucky for him, snippets of their conversation could also be heard through the thin glass, though it was not quite enough to glean anything significant from. Not so luckily, neither what he saw nor what he heard were particularly what he was expecting or hoping for.

"If you––should try––like––the he––_cher_––yes?" Obviously France.

"That's––no way––killed!" America. Someone killed? That could not be correct. Arthur stole a tentative glance through the window, and nearly fell over in astonishment at the scene before him.

His first thought was an incoherent jumble regarding how the two were still much too close––in fact, closer than they'd been earlier. By close, he meant their noses were nearly touching, and France had one grotesque frog-hand against America's cheek, though at least America had mustered up the dignity to look uncomfortable. Thus, his second thought was an even more incoherent jumble cursing Alfred for being such a bloody idiotic sodding (and overly adorable) git, Francis for being, well, Francis, and himself for caring so much about someone so damn troublesome. His third was a strong reminder not to punch anything, which he certainly felt like doing right about then, for it would surely expose his presence.

_What if America really did ask Francis out...?_ He shuddered at the thought. _But look how close they are...and the way Francis is..is touching him..._ If America telling him, so many days ago, that he wanted to ask out someone who had not turned out to be Arthur himself was like a stab to the heart, this––seeing him actually acting so close with someone––was like a nuclear bomb exploding right in his face.

He moved away from the window again and went back to eavesdropping.

"You can––let––now!" America again, sounding a bit annoyed. "What if––back!"

"––not worry––almost––but there––more––learn." Learn? What could France possibly teach anyone? Aside from the obvious, rather inappropriate things. Those, and cooking. Though that was inappropriate too, as long as it came from France.

"––hurry––and where––rose from?"

A chuckle. "It––not matter.––see _l'Angleterre_––must––understand, _oui_?"

The more Arthur heard, the more agitated he became. It sounded quite distinctly as if they truly were on a date and wanted to keep him from finding out. But America couldn't be _that _daft, could he? And that he would try to hide things from him...that was the worst of it.

Unable to stand it any longer, he peered once again through the window and nearly fainted.

_What the bloody hell is––_

In following with America's earlier statement, a rose had indeed appeared seemingly from nowhere and currently resided in France's clutches as he held it out to the very nervous-looking blonde country across from him. Arthur could only gape as Alfred haltingly accepted the rose and smiled his dazzling smile, while France said something not quite audible through the glass. He swore it looked as if they were about to kiss.

_Did he just––what is––what the fuck is going on here––this can't be what––_

Arthur still had not moved away from the window, rooted to the spot by his shock, and just barely managed to get out of the way and flatten himself against the wall as America's gaze turned to look outside. He panted slightly both from the rush of near-discovery and from the unnerving sigh unfolding within the café, earning more than a few curious looks from passers-by. They didn't matter, though, as he was too––he didn't even know what. Of course he was growing more and more depressed by the moment––no, not angry; he couldn't truly be angry with Alfred––but he was also something else that he couldn't quite place, something like emptiness and...tearing. He didn't want to believe Alfred had any serious intentions towards Francis, but it was certainly appearing that way more and more as the day wore on.

It made absolutely no sense, but if the git wanted to learn his lesson the hard way (oh, if only England knew the irony of such words), he couldn't stop him. He had been waiting for couple hundred years already, and he was not about to become a selfish bastard now; if Alfred was happy, nothing could be done. Even if it meant feeling like the entire world was being washed away by a London storm. And––oh, who was he kidding. Of course he would try to manipulate the twat out of his ridiculous situation, but if he was going to do that, he couldn't seem upset.

Thus it was with any hint of a tear swallowed and perfect composure that Arthur greeted the two countries upon their exit from the café, doing his best to seem as if he'd just arrived back at the same time they'd decided to leave. They acted normal enough, Arthur noted, but Francis seemed too subdued and Alfred far too cheery (even for him).

"Heeeeey! Artie!"

"Hello, America. And please, it's England." The words made him wince, but if things were going to be like this, he couldn't act close to blue-eyed country before him. And what if things didn't go well? Acting close to America would be to painful to bear, in that case, so he may as well get used to it.

His statement was met with with bemusement. "You're annoyed about that again? I thought you gave up! You really needa loosen up, you know?" America said with a laugh, and began to ruffle England's hair affectionately. The Brit pulled back as if stung, partly acting; however, the action was also partly genuine. How could Alfred act like this after everything he'd just witnessed through the window?

"Well, I will leave you two alone!" France was calling, already moving away. Arthur could have sworn there was someone walking beside him as he did so, yet he couldn't make out who it was at all. With one glance back at the pair to wink and throw an arm around the nothingness beside him, France disappeared around a corner and was gone.

"He certainly got out of here quickly," Arthur mumbled, turning back towards Alfred. "You'd think he'd want to stay, with the way he was acting back in that little café of his." _Let's see what sort of reaction this garners, hm?_

Alfred blanched. "You––saw us?"

"Indeed. You two seemed to be enjoying yourselves." Arthur smiled thinly. "It was a very nice rose."

"I––uh––huh? Wait, wait, Artie, you've got it all wrong here––"

"So there's some other explanation for why that frog bastard was acting so lovey-dovey? Hm? Right. You know, you could have told me you were planning to try asking out _him_. Though I surely would have dissuaded you from such a foolhardy choice." He made sure to state everything flatly––to not sound upset. He wasn't angry, as he'd earlier decided; no, he finally recognised the feeling accompanying his sadness: disappointment.

"I––wait––Artie, you––"

"And then you try to keep this a secret even from me? What about your poor brother? I don't know what you're thinking, America, or if you even are thinking at all..but I hope you are satisfied with your decision." Inside, he was breaking as he said those last words, the void rending open even further; even if he was acting somewhat, he was genuinely hurt by America's actions, especially now that the country was seriously trying to make him believe nothing had been going on. But he would not let Alfred see this. Arthur turned to leave; he was going home. And by 'home' he meant, naturally, 'to anywhere with drinks'.

"Artie, listen to me!" Alfred begged, grabbing the smaller country's wrist and pulling him back around.

Those blue eyes which stared down at him desperately were precisely what Arthur had been hoping to avoid. Perfect sky captured in two round irises, and they were focused on him, spilling over with a concern that only America could ever bother to muster up for him. Did he have to go and make everything that much more difficult?

"Look, France was just giving me advice," America explained. "Really."

Arthur laughed dryly. "You call that 'giving advice'? He looked as if he was about to kiss you."

Alfred shuddered slightly. "It's _France_. I mean, geez. He likes to teach by example, unfortunately…" he said with a shrug, looking genuinely peeved by the thought of Francis' teaching methods.

Unfortunately, America's arguments were met only with scepticism. "Right. I even heard you two talking. Something about watching out for me, as if you were worried about me showing up? Why would you be saying something like that?"

"Watching out?" Alfred appeared to concentrate, thinking back on the conversation, and suddenly grew embarrassed. "––oh. No, dude, that was just because the reason for the––I mean––"

"I don't want to hear it."

"But I'm serious! Heroes never lie. There's nothing going on."

"Actually, many heroes do." Arthur was beginning to think Alfred could be telling the truth, but his pride––and pain––kept him going.

"Not me! Besides...I wouldn't lie to you," he countered with a pout. England averted his gaze before it could work on him, remaining silent. There wasn't much he could say to a statement like that.

"Look, America, please...won't you just leave me alone?" He turned to go once more.

"But Artie––"

"Leave me alone!"

For the second time that day, he ran.

* * *

France was saying, if anyone's curious, "_Non, non, l'Angleterre_ would never smile like that! If you're going to play his part in this lesson, you must scowl!"

Oh France...you are a jerk. Alfred...you are a daft fool. And Arthur...I love you, but you are far too stubborn.

Please forgive me, everyone, for how terribly long this update took! I know it is a thin excuse, but I have been unbelievably busy with school and contests and volunteering and activities and etc… I started this chapter a while back but was unable to finish until now. I'm very sorry. I'll try to update much, much faster this time around. The story *should* be coming to a close soon, and seeing as I am very excited to write the ending, that will go faster, I hope.


	6. A Change of Pace

Disclaimer: Still not the owner of Hetalia.

A/N: YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU REALLY.

Anyway, drama time. But by the end of the chapter, there's been a pretty dramatic change in tone. xD;

Sorry if something about the setting doesn't make much sense; I really don't know the area by Charing Cross Station..it was just the first station to pop into my head. But the hotel and the "conveniently-placed ledge" do exist, if googled photographs are any proof. xD

Well, without further ado...

* * *

A Change of Pace

* * *

Arthur wasn't quite sure how he'd made it back to England, but at some point late that night he'd found himself back in his hometown of London, standing outside Charing Cross Station and absolutely soaked, not to mention very much disoriented. Naturally, it happened to be pouring upon his arrival; he tried to pretend as if this was not because of himself. Tried to pretend he wasn't upset at all even after dashing through the streets of France while holding back the rain which threatened to escape his stormy eyes. Tried to pretend.

He did that a lot, didn't he?

Pushing the grim thought from his mind, he wandered along beside the road, focusing on the dim water splashing beneath his feet. He wasn't running anymore, couldn't run. He'd realised upon reaching his land that he'd just been trying to run from himself––his hopeless love, his selfishness, his stubbornness, everything, with poor Alfred left there to bear the brunt of it. It was hardly the silly American's fault for making someone like him fall in love, yet Arthur had taken everything out on him, which in the process only served to make his own situation even more hopeless.

He was a fool.

Arthur punched the wall of the nearby building––some hotel––as if some of the storm inside him could be transferred into the poor structure (and indeed, the wall did seem to crack a little under the ex-pirate's strength). Just like after the war, the Revolutionary War, he'd fled like a coward, unable to voice what he'd truly felt, hiding his tears in the rain from the one person who might have been willing to do something about them, if only he'd seen. 'Used to be so big,' indeed––he felt even smaller than when those haunting words had rung out across the rain-soaked battlefield. The thought of America leaving him once again tore at his heart, made his eyes ache. Would things go back to the way they'd been right after that? Painfully keeping his distance whilst pretending everything was fine? Growing closer slowly, building up to this moment when everything would just––disappear again?

He couldn't accept that.

_If only Alfred were here…_ Arthur found himself thinking as he collapsed upon a conveniently-placed ledge beside a stairway to the Underground and forced back the tears which threatened to escape, shielded from the rain by an awning above. Not that it would be of much help if he did come; at this point, even America would probably have noticed how England felt, and since the silly country had made it quite obvious he didn't feel the same way, it would just be awkward. He didn't need some sort of ill-worded rejection to deal with on top of everything else. There was no telling how he'd react to something like that at this point; most likely, it would involve even more alcohol than he was planning to consume.

Or perhaps, America had been telling the truth and everything was just a terribly convoluted misunderstanding––this is what England wanted dearly to believe. But why would Alfred need a 'lesson', or even accept one? And considering the events of the past couple weeks, regarding Japan and Russia, it just seemed so unlikely.

Arthur buried his face in his hands. The worst thing was that after all of this, he was still hopeful. Though he'd been betrayed countless times, he could not help but entertain the idea that there was still a chance for this whole mess to end up all right. The prat was rubbing off on him, it seemed, what with that endless optimism of his. But really; the idea of Alfred and Francis together sounded so far-fetched. He desperately wanted to believe America's denial of anything going on between them and the heart-wrenching expression on his face as Arthur had dashed away. Yet he'd learnt long ago to believe his eyes more than his ears, and that scene through the café window tore at his every thought, ripping the attempts at optimism into unsalvageable little shreds.

He looked up briefly, perhaps with the ridiculous notion that America might appear, and his hear leapt at the sight of bright blond amidst the crowd. But it was no one he knew, just another nameless grey face in the rain, and Arthur felt even worse for wishing so much that Alfred would come. There was no chance of the git looking in such a random location, anyway. Arthur himself hardly knew how he'd managed to end up in such a place. Still, at every hint of gold hair, brown jacket, or wide grin, he started and peered closer, full of that sickening hope, only to see someone else and crumble a bit more inside from his foolishness.

In the end, Alfred came unnoticed from the side, announcing his presence with a warm jacket and something mumbled about catching a cold. Concealing his surprise and happiness in a characteristic stony frown, Arthur remained silent, unable to say anything meaningful. They sat in silence for a long while, the rain crashing down before them indifferently as if to add to the already dismal atmosphere surrounding the pair. It was Alfred who at length broke the silence.

"So, um, Artie…" he attempted, fumbling for words.

"Hm?" Arthur replied distractedly.

"I––you––I mean, ah…" A heavy sigh. Alfred 's hands clenched into nervous fists. "You alright?"

Arthur almost felt like laughing, the enquiry was so ridiculous. "Oh, absolutely," he said, staring at America pointedly with his reddened eyes for a moment before looking down at his rain-soaked clothing. "Just lovely."

"I know, stupid question," Alfred said quickly. He attempted a laugh, but it faded quickly into another sigh.

"How did you find me here?"

"Hero's intuition?" America chuckled. "Nah, I followed you the whole way. I lost you for a while at the station, but as you can see, I caught up..."

It wasn't until he'd said this that Arthur realised just how drenched Alfred was, possibly more than himself. His golden hair had been rendered brown by the water dripping from it and the glass of his spectacles was speckled so thoroughly it was a wonder he could see anything at all. But however drab and dishevelled he currently appeared, his eyes still sparkled with their intense blue, unmatched by any others in the world and filled to the brim with that concern that Arthur could never quite understand. They fell silent again, each studying the other. Arthur wished he could be able to say something, that it's all right, that everything was forgiven, but he couldn't find the words.

"Look, I…"Alfred began haltingly.

England spoke before he could continue, doing all he could to keep his voice stable. "I don't want to hear any excuses, Alfred, so you might as well––"

"But I don't need to make any excuses! I was telling the truth," he interrupted indignantly. Arthur wanted to believe this, he truly did, for the look of hurt and regret in those beautiful eyes was heart-wrenching. Even so, he found himself unable to let it stop there. He feared being left alone again as he had been so many times, so perhaps if he could just make America see just how much all this was paining him...

But his pride was too great to allow him to express something like that properly, and as usual, he resorted to insults instead. "You honestly expect me to believe such a tale? You really are the most daft person I have ever come across…"

Alfred cringed. "But it's really––I...I would never…"

"Never what? Never lie to me? Never accept roses from that frog? Never let the bastard touch you? For it certainly looked as if you did just that." Arthur knew he was being harsh, but he couldn't help himself. If he let the anger stop, he was afraid the tears would take over again in its absence. He didn't want America to see him like that.

"I told you, that's all just because he––"

"Because it was a '_lesson_'?" Arthur interrupted coldly.

Alfred nodded furiously, his cerulean eyes laced with desperation. "That's the truth."

But Arthur would not––could not––let it end there. "Right. Of course. Tell me, what about those other bloody countries––Japan and Russia and whomever else you thought you might visit? I had to sit through all that, and now you fucking throw this at me too––"

Now Alfred was growing angry as well. "You're going to bring them into this? You––you even helped me!"

"Of course I did, but that doesn't mean I––"

He was cut off by a cold, level voice: "Why do you even care?"

Arthur paused a moment, caught off-guard by the sudden question and unnerved by the way Alfred was staring at him, his gaze uncharacteristically serious, even considering that he was angry. Those deep blue eyes pierced through him, as if Alfred was trying to see right into his mind. He made it appear as if the answer to that question would decide the fate of the world, and perhaps, in a roundabout way, that was entirely possible.

"What?" Arthur asked quietly, too taken aback to say much else.

"Yeah, why!" the American shouted, the intensity turning to irritation. "You make such a huge deal about everything––those retarded plans I came up with for Japan and Russia that you went along with so easily and now this whole thing with France which I swear to God I'm telling the truth about and––!"

"Well––that's––"

He wasn't allowed a chance to finish before America was yelling again, arms crossed and expression defiant. "You always try to act so distant ever since _then_, so why the hell do you care about something like this?"

"I mean, that's because––" England stuttered, struggling to find the answer.

"Because?" Alfred cut in impatiently.

It was too much; Arthur, caught up in the argument, could no longer hold in the truth which he'd so desperately tried to deny even to himself:

"Because I love you, dammit!"

Silence.

The words settled heavily in the air. He had spoken before he'd realised what he was saying, and now he'd gone an blurted the exact thing he'd wished to avoid, given the circumstances, and it was out there just like that. Crashing down with the rain. He looked down at the ground, anywhere not to have to look at America, his heart beating practically out of his chest. Those three words were something he longed to say for so many years, but not like this. Not when they had no chance. He'd thought that when he was finally able to say such a thing, he'd feel relieved, or happy, but instead he felt only more torn and selfish. All he was doing was putting more burden on America than the ever-cheery nation deserved, and at the worst possible time in the least desirable manner imaginable. Now he could be certain things would never be normal between them, not after that, and the stunned silence which persisted was not doing much in the way of disproving this fear.

However, when the silence was finally broken, the most unexpected of words met his ears:

"Finally," Alfred breathed.

Arthur didn't understand it. He must have misheard. "What?"

"Finally!" he repeated, gazing at him with a mixture of so many emotions––relief, joy, exhaustion, countless inexpressible things. Then he began laughing––just a chuckle at first, but it quickly crescendoed into the exuberant sound England had come to know so well over the years. Arthur just stared at him, dumbfounded. It didn't make any sense. Finally? What was so funny?

"And here I was starting to think––"

"What are you talking about?" Arthur enquired with confusion.

Alfred rubbed the back of his head awkwardly, cheeks growing slightly pink. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear something like that..."

Arthur flushed slightly as well, but continued to stare quizzically at the American sitting beside him. He didn't understand. "You wanted––what? But what about––with France––"

"Well I mean, er, that was all France's idea, really…" America admitted sheepishly. "I knew I'd––that I'd never be able to say anything so… He said I should try asking out all these other people so you'd––" But America succumbed to the relieved laughter once again before he could finish.

America's words began to sink in, but all they served to do was to replace the confusion with shock. "Wait, you…? What––?"

Alfred sighed jokingly, as if explaining something to a child. "Arthur, I love you."

England was left in disbelief. Whether it was due to America's words or how much of an idiot the guy was for doing anything France recommended was to remain uncertain. "Y-you do?" he stuttered, thoroughly embarrassed.

"Ever since the Revolution, I'd say, yeah," America replied matter-of-factly.

Arthur's face was rapidly cycling through various shades of crimson. "Y-you––" he spluttered, lacking the composure to say anything more insightful. Pausing a moment, he did his best to regain some semblance of dignity before attempting to speak again. When he finally did, he'd returned to the usual: "You mean you put me through all that because you were too much of a bloody coward to say anything and too much of an idiot to have the good sense to ignore France when he suggested that you––"

"That I should try to make you jealous! Well, I wouldn't exactly phrase it like that, but that works." Alfred flashed his irresistible giant grin. "But you had me worried there for a while, since you weren't saying anything, even after Russia... That's why France said he'd show me how to impress you, or something. Well, he worded it kinda different, but you know," he prattled on.

"You––You're––You're a git, you know that? Bloody idiot…" Arthur finally managed. He could feel wetness at the edges of his eyes threatening to spill over and glanced down at his nervously fidgeting hands in an attempt to hide it. It wasn't just that he was upset with Alfred for putting him through so much, but he also just felt so––so something. He lacked the words to describe the strange feeling filling him, a sensation akin to the same mixture of relief and happiness which had caused America's laughter yet was also, in his case, tinged with an inexplicable pain.

"Hey, hey, hey, Artie, don't you start crying on me now…" America said with concern, placing one hand on England's shoulder. But Arthur could no longer hold the joy-relief-sadness-whatever tears back, and they flowed freely down his slightly reddened cheeks. "H-hey––!"

"I'm f-fine!" Arthur exclaimed hurriedly, covering his mouth with one hand to muffle a sob. "Really…"

Gently, America brushed the trails of water for the Brit's face, which quickly flushed an even deeper red, if that was even possible. Once again his eyes were filled with that concern, but it was no longer a mysterious expression: England at last understood. How had he not seen before? It was the same way he looked when he worried for America, after all; the kind of expression one can only manage when gazing at someone beloved.

"But you're crying! What's wrong? I'm sorry I listened to France…?" America said, replacing his hand upon England's shoulder. "Though it worked..." he added under his breath.

"That––the France thing––that doesn't matter. There's nothing wrong, it––it's just…" He took a deep, shaky breath to prevent another sob and tried to hold in the tears which relentlessly threatened the edges of his eyes; so much for trying to preserve his pride in front of Alfred. "It's just that everything is..._right_. It's so wonderful, so––frightening. I came here thinking you would...leave me forever, and now this..."

_But instead, you're here, and everything is _much _too right__,_ he mused as he regarded the man beside him, who was simply staring back with a sort of awe. Arthur still could hardly believe that after all this time he'd finally confessed to America, and moreover, his feelings had been accepted without hesitation. It was a day he'd long dreamt of behind all those layers of denial, though nothing exactly happened in an ideal manner––he'd had to meet with his worst enemy, feel utterly betrayed, get help from a guy he couldn't even remember (really; who _was_ that?), and dash through pounding rain just to get out a simple little statement like I lo––well, like that one. Here they sat out in the cold, horribly soaked, with him shamelessly crying like a kid. So much for ever getting a chance to confess romantically, but the point was, he'd done it. Besides, he didn't like romantic things much anyway, of course. That was preposterous. It was just the proper way a gentleman should act.

The whole situation was rather funny, really, he found himself thinking suddenly. They'd both gone through two weeks of hell for each other, came of of it full of doubt and anxiety and worry, just for all of it to end in a conversation––well, argument––lasting no more than a few minutes. It all could have ended so much earlier; it was ridiculous. But they'd made it to this point, and Alfred wasn't gone––he hadn't been left behind again. The relief such a realisation brought him was immense.

All at once, Arthur was laughing uncontrollably through the tears. An effect of being able to release all the pent up worry, most likely, but true (rather giggly) laughter nonetheless. Alfred placed his hand against Arthur's forehead, saying something about being afraid he was getting sick, but that just made the giggles worse.

"Er, Artie––hey––maybe we should get you inside, cause you're acting really––"

He was unable to finish the thought, however, as it was interrupted by a tight hug from the still-chucking Brit. "You really––are––such an insufferable––fool––you know that?" England said through the bursts of tearful laughter. America simply returned the hug without comment, face growing redder than a tomato. "But you do realise that I'll have to exact some revenge for you seeing me like this later, hm? And for all that nonsense involving France."

"...revenge?"

"Yes," England said thoughtfully, pulling away and leaning back against the railing behind them. "For example, I could have you eat my cooking for a week. That would include substituting tea for coffee, of course." He gave his best sinister smile, straight from the pirate days. It may not have sounded like much of a threat, but for America, something like that would be hell on earth.

America gulped. "I really don't think that's necessary…"

"It's quite necessary. Otherwise you'll not have learnt your lesson."

"I learned it just fine already, thanks," America insisted nervously, putting one arm around England in an attempt at some sort of peace offering.

Arthur leant into the half-embrace, but there was no way he was going to rescind his statement. Besides, the idiot was messing with his language again, and that was unacceptable. "Oh no, I don't think you've _learnt_ it yet at all. I could make you...hm. Speak proper English during that time as well. Or take up the violin, since as I remember, you loved it _oh so much_ back when you were a colony... "

"I have _learned_ it, really. I'll never speak in your ridiculous accent, and pianos are much cooler. When it comes to violins I'd much rather learn to fiddle than play all that crap you tried to teach me back then."

"Learnt. And Mozart is not crap."

"Learned. And yeah it is."

"Stop abusing my language," Arthur admonished, punching America lightly in the shoulder. "Speak properly like you used to."

"Pssh, I'm not your colony anymore," Alfred retorted, punching him back. "I can talk how I want. Besides, I made your stuffy old language _better_. Just like I made better food, and better––better everything!"

England rolled his eyes, trying hard not to smile. Things had gone back to normal quite quickly––well, as normal as they could be after every that had happened. After all, having America's arm about his shoulders was certainly not 'normal', though it would surely be in future. "How many times must I explain to you that grease stuffed between two pieces of fake bread does not even begin to qualify as food?"

Alfred let out a mocking chuckle. "So, what, tasteless rocks do?"

"Scones are not rocks!" Arthur scoffed.

"Well, yours certainly are. They fit in quite nicely with Japan's front yard, don't you remember?"

"They never even ended up in the garden, don't _you_ remember? _Someone _made them all fall into the pond."

"That was your fault, too! Ugh, I feel sorry for those fish…"

"Well, perhaps if you'd just stopped mucking about and asked me out rather than everyone but, there never would have been a reason for me to make scones for Japan in the first place."

Alfred said nothing, opting to sheepishly adjust Texas, which had slipped down the bridge of his nose a bit as usual.

"Nothing to say to that one, eh?" Arthur said cockily, flicking Texas' wire frames.

"Don't mess with Texas," Alfred muttered half-heartedly, the cheesy joke earning a bit of a smile from Arthur, and adjusted his spectacles once more. "And hey, if you'd just said something rather than just sitting there and blushing every time I so much as blinked at you…"

"...shut up. Git."

"Love you too, Artie."

"Tch…"

America smiled brightly at England's irritable scowl, and the Brit tried hard to resist smiling back. It suddenly seemed much more difficult to do now that they were...together. Weren't they? They'd never said anything about dating, but he supposed nothing really needed to be said at this point. Or did it? How did things like this work, anyway?

Whilst Arthur was preoccupied debating the intricacies of their relationship, Alfred leant forward and caught him in another, very enthusiastic hug.

"W-what are you doing?" Arthur exclaimed, flustered, as he attempted to push the twat away. However, Alfred was simply too strong, and the Brit was unable to escape. "W-we're in public!" he stuttered. "Stop that!"

"But you just hugged me like a minute ago," the American point out, laughing.

Arthur's face reddened. "A mere lapse in judgement! I...my mental state was...unstable! Which was all your fault, mind you."

"As if it wasn't already unstable, old man," America retorted. "Have you played with your faeries recently?"

He'd seen Gwin just yesterday, actually, England found himself remembering unhelpfully, but he was not about to say something like that. "Will you please just let go of me? People are staring, I'm sure…"

"Not until you stop shivering."

England's face reddened a bit more. He hadn't noticed it until that moment, but he was shivering quite badly, even with the warmth of America's jacket and, well, America himself. Who was, though he'd scarcely admit it, quite nice and warm and soft and––oh fuck, not the ridiculously sappy thoughts again. If they were to become a regular occurrence now that he'd given up on the denial, he feared he'd go mental before the week was over.

"I am not––!" Arthur protested, once again attempting to escape from Alfred's grasp.

"Right. Of course not," America said, finally letting go, though not completely––he still clutched Arthur's smaller hand in his own. If it was possible for the Brit to turn an even worse shade of crimson, he certainly would have done so.

"L-let go of me.." the Brit murmured, though he'd essentially given up by then.

Indeed, the protest was ignored. "Why don't we––go home?" America enquired suddenly, standing.

"What?"

"Home. I mean, uh, I mean, to your house." Alfred tugged awkwardly at Arthur's hand. "Before we both end up sick. Well, before you end up more sick," he added with a grin.

"I am not sick!" Arthur grumbled, swinging at Alfred with his free hand. But the American dodged the attack deftly, yanking the Brit from his seat in the process.

"Let's go!" he exclaimed, spinning round on one heel to face the direction of Arthur's house. The grumbling Englishman had no choice but to be dragged about with him.

Thus they set off through the driving rain, hand in hand, with no more barriers between them––misunderstanding fixed, awkwardness banished; even the war, so long a source of so much anguish and regret, seemed to have melted away.

"Yes," Arthur said wistfully to himself as they made their way through the rain. "Let's go...home."

Indeed, everything was much too 'right'.

And that was exactly the way he preferred it.

* * *

(He never minded rainy days as much, after that..)

Anyway, whoa, is that the end? After all this time––! I can't get my head around the idea. In the beginning this wasn't intended to be a very serious story, but I ended up caring so much about it...and a bit part of that is due to all you wonderful readers. I hope it's alright. I've been very paranoid about publishing this. I actually finished yesterday, but put off the editing till today...

I'll be writing an epilogue though, I think, so don't leave me just yet, you hear? ;]

And again, 1000 apologies for the updates taking so long recently and 1000 thanks for your support of this story! All of you who stayed with me to this point, to the end (wow!), I love you so much. See you next story, I hope!

--狼


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